FRI6ND5  6~P 


tH 


s 


Cfassicg 


BY 


DR.  JOHN   BROWN 


AN  OUTLINE  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR 
BY  E.  T.  M'L. 


BOSTON   AND   NEW   YORK 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY 

<£&  fiifcetsi&e  $«?&  «£ambn&0e 


STACK 
ANNEX 
PR 


ft  DO 

CONTENTS. 


DR.  JOHN  BROWN.     An  Outline  by  E.  T.  M'L.        .        .      5 

KAB  AND  HIS  FRIENDS 21 

OUR  DOGS 42 

MORE  OF  "  OUR  DOGS  " 68 

PLEA  FOR  A  DOG  HOME 74 

THE  MYSTERY  OF  BLACK  AND  TAN    *        ...        78 

MARJORIE  FLEMING 89 

QUEEN  MARY'S  CHILD-GARDEN 124 

MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.     Letter  to  John  Cairns,  D.  D.     .  130 

DR  CHALMERS 233 

JEEMS  THE  DOOR-KEEPER 268 

"  OH,  I  'M  WAT,  WAT  !  " 286 

HER  LAST  HALF-CROWN  ...  .          296 


DK.  JOHN  BROWN. 


AN   OUTLINE   BY   E.    T.    M  L. 


WHEN  a  school-girl  I  was  standing  one  afternoon 
in  the  lobby  at  Arthur  Lodge,  talking  to  Jane  Brown, 
my  newest  school  friend.  No  doubt  we  had  much 
that  was  important  to  say  to  one  another,  and  took 
small  notice  of  what  doors  were  opened  or  shut,  or 
what  footsteps  came  near.  I  remember  no  approach- 
ing sound,  when  suddenly  my  arm  was  firmly  grasped 
from  behind,  and  "  What  wretch  is  this  ?  "  was  asked 
in  a  quiet,  distinctive  tone  of  voice. 

The  words  were  sufficiently  alarming,  but  I  had 
no  sense  of  fear,  for  my  upturned  eyes  looked  into 
a  face  that  told  of  gentleness  as  truly  as  of  penetra- 
tion and  fun,  and  I  knew  as  if  by  instinct  that  this 
was  Jane's  "  Brother  John,"  a  doctor  whom  every- 
body liked.  There  was  no  "  Rab  and  his  Friends  " 
as  yet.  I  must  have  stood  quite  still,  looking  up  at 
him,  and  so  making  his  acquaintance,  for  I  know  it 
was  Jane  who  answered  his  question,  telling  him  who 
I  was  and  where  I  lived.  "  Ah  !  "  he  said,  "  I  know 
her  father ;  he  is  a  very  good  man,  a  great  deal  bet- 


6  DR.   JOHN    BROWN. 

ter  than  .  .  . ,  in  whom  he  believes."  He  asked  me 
if  I  was  going  into  town,  and  hearing  I  was  said, 
"  I  '11  drive  you  in."  He  took  no  notice  of  me  as  we 
walked  down  to  the  small  side  gate,  and  I  was  plunged 
in  thought  at  the  idea  of  driving  home  in  a  doctor's 
carriage.  We  soon  reached  said  carriage,  and  my 
foot  was  on  the  step,  when  again  my  arm  was  seized, 
and  this  time,  "Are  you  a  Homeopathist  ?  "  was  de- 
manded. I  stoutly  answered  "  Yes,"  for  I  thought 
I  must  not  sail  or  drive  under  false  colors.  "  Indeed  ! 
they  go  outside,"  was  his  reply.  This  was  too  much 
for  me ;  so,  shaking  myself  free  I  said,  "  No,  they 
don't,  they  can  walk."  He  smiled,  looked  me  rap- 
idly all  over  from  head  to  foot,  and  then  said  in  the 
same  quiet  voice,  "  For  that  I  '11  take  you  in  "  —  and 
in  I  went. 

He  asked  me  a  little  about  school,  but  did  not  talk 
much,  and  I  remember  with  a  kind  of  awe,  that  I 
saw  him  lean  back  and  shut  his  eyes.  I  did  not  then 
know  how  characteristic  of  him  at  times  this  attitude 
was,  but  I  felt  relieved  that  no  speaking  was  ex- 
pected. He  brought  me  home,  came  in  and  saw  my 
mother,  and  before  he  left  had  established  a  friendly 
footing  all  around.  And  so  began  a  friendship  — 
for  he  allowed  me  to  call  it  that  —  the  remembrance 
of  which  is  a  possession  forever. 

Many  years  after,  when  one  day  he  spoke  of  driv- 
ing with  him  as  if  it  were  only  a  dull  thing  to  do,  I 
told  him  that  when  he  asked  me  I  always  came  most 
gladly,  and  that  I  looked  upon  it  as  "  a  means  of 


DR.   JOHN   BROWN.  7 

grace."  He  smiled,  but  shook  his  head  rather  sadly, 
and  I  was  afraid  I  had  ventured  too  far.  We  did 
not  refer  to  it  again,  but  weeks  after  he  came  up  to 
me  in  the  dining-room  at  Rutland  Street,  and  with- 
out one  introductory  remark,  said,  "  Means  of  grace 
to-morrow  at  half-past  two." 

And  means  of  grace  it  was  then  and  always.  I 
remember  that  afternoon  distinctly,  and  could  write 
down  recollections  of  it.  But  what  words  can  con- 
vey any  idea  of  the  sense  of  pleasure  that  intercourse 
with  him  always  gave  ?  It  brought  intensifying  of 
life  within  and  around  one,  and  the  feeling  of  be- 
ing understood,  of  being  over-estimated,  and  yet  this 
over-estimation  only  led  to  humility  and  aspiration. 
His  kindly  insight  seemed  to  fasten  rather  on  what 
might  yet  be,  than  what  already  was,  and  so  led  one 
on  to  hope  and  strive.  "  I  '11  try  to  be  good,"  must 
have  been  the  unspoken  resolve  of  many  a  heart, 
after  being  with  him,  though  no  one  more  seldom 
gave  what  is  called  distinctively  "  good  advice,"  med- 
ical excepted. 

It  was  to  Colinton  House  he  was  going  that  after- 
noon. As  we  drove  along,  sometimes  there  were 
long  silences,  then  gleams  of  the  veriest  nonsense 
and  fun,  and  then  perhaps  some  true  words  of  far- 
stretching  meaning.  The  day  was  one  of  those  in 
late  winter  that  break  upon  us  suddenly  without  any 
prelude,  deluding  us  into  believing  that  spring  has 
come,  cheering,  but  saddening  too,  in  their  passing 
brightness.  As  we  neared  the  Pentlands  he  spoke  of 


8  DR.   JOHN   BROWN. 

how  he  knew  them  in  every  aspect,  and  specially  no- 
ticed the  extreme  clearness  and  stillness  of  the  atmos- 
phere, quoting  those  lines  which  he  liked  so  much,  — 

"  Winter,  slumbering  in  the  open  air, 
Wears  on  his  smiling  face  a  dream  of  spring." 

and  ending  with  a  sigh  for  "  poor  Coleridge,  so  won- 
derful and  so  sad."  After  his  visit  to  the  house  he 
took  me  to  the  garden,  where  he  had  a  quiet,  droll 
talk  with  the  gardener,  introducing  me  to  him  as  the 
Countess  of  something  or  other.  The  gardener  took 
the  Countess's  visit  very  quietly  —  he  seemed  to  un- 
derstand the  introduction.  I  remember  the  interview 
ended  abruptly  by  Dr.  Brown  pulling  out  the  gar- 
dener's watch  instead  of  his  own.  Looking  at  it,  he 
replaced  it  carefully,  and,  without  a  word  said,  he 
walked  away.  As  we  were  leaving  the  garden  he 
stopped  for  a  moment  opposite  a  bed  of  violets,  and 
quoted  the  lines,  — 

' '  Violets  dim, 
But  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes ;  " 

then,  after  a  minute,  "  What  a  creature  he  was,  be- 
yond all  words !  " 

I  think  it  was  the  same  afternoon  that,  in  driving 
home,  he  spoke  of  the  difficulty  we  had  in  recalling, 
so  vividly  as  to  hear  it  once  more,  the  voice  of  one 
who  is  gone.  He  said,  "  You  can  see  the  face," 
and,  putting  out  his  hand,  "  you  can  feel  their  touch, 
but  to  hear  the  voice  is  to  me  most  difficult  of  all." 
Then,  after  a  pause,  he  said,  "  For  three  months  I 


DR.   JOHN   BROWN.  9 

tried  to  hear  her  voice,  and  could  not ;  but  at  last  it 
came,  —  one  word  brought  it  back."  He  was  going 
to  say  the  word,  and  then  he  stopped  and  said,  "  No, 
it  might  spoil  it."  I  told  him  I  could  recall  very 
vividly  the  only  time  I  spoke  to  Mrs.  Brown.  He 
asked  me  to  tell  him  about  it,  and  I  did.  The  next 
day  I  met  him  out  at  dinner,  and  by  rare  good  for- 
tune sat  next  him.  We  had  only  been  seated  a  min- 
ute or  two  when  he  turned  to  me  and  said,  "  What 
you  told  me  about  her  yesterday  has  been  like  a  sil- 
ver thread  running  through  the  day." 

At  one  time  he  drove  to  Colinton  two  or  three 
times  a  week,  and  knew  each  separate  tree  on  the 
road  or  stone  in  the  wall,  and  on  suddenly  opening 
his  eyes  could  tell  within  a  yard  or  two  what  part  of 
the  road  he  had  reached.  For  if  it  were  true  that  he 
often  closed  his  eyes  as  if  to  shut  out  sad  thoughts, 
or,  as  in  listening  to  music,  to  intensify  the  impres- 
sion, it  was  also  true  that  no  keener  observer  ever 
lived.  Nothing  escaped  him,  and  to  his  sensitive 
nature  the  merest  passing  incident  on  the  street  be- 
came a  source  of  joy  or  sorrow,  while  in  the  same  way 
his  keen  sense  of  humor  had  endless  play.  Once, 
when  driving,  he  suddenly  stopped  in  the  middle 
of  a  sentence,  and  looked  out  eagerly  at  the  back  of 
the  carriage.  "  Is  it  some  one  you  know  ?  "  I  asked. 
"  No,"  he  said,  "  it 's  a  dog  I  don't  know."  Another 
day,  pointing  out  a  man  who  was  passing,  I  asked 
him  if  he  could  tell  me  his  name.  He  merely  glanced 
at  him,  and  then  said,  "  No,  I  never  saw  him  before, 


10  DR.    JOHN   BROWN. 

but  I  can  tell  you  what  he  is  —  a  deposed  Estab- 
lished Church  minister."  Soon  after  I  heard  that 
this  was  an  exact  description  of  the  man. 

He  often  used  to  say  that  he  knew  every  one  in 
Edinburgh  except  a  few  new-comers,  and  to  walk 
Princes  Street  with  him  was  to  realize  that  this  was 
nearly  a  literal  fact.  How  he  rejoiced  in  the  beauty 
of  Edinburgh !  "  She  is  a  glorious  creature,"  he  said 
one  day,  as  he  looked  toward  the  Castle  rock,  and 
then  along  the  beautiful,  familiar  street  shining  in 
the  intense,  sudden  brightness  that  follows  a  heavy 
spring  shower ;  "  her  sole  duty  is  to  let  herself  be 
seen."  He  generally  drove,  but  when  he  walked  it 
was  in  leisurely  fashion,  as  if  not  unwilling  to  be  ar- 
rested. To  some  he  spoke  for  a  moment,  and,  though 
only  for  a  moment,  he  seemed  to  send  them  on  their 
way  rejoicing  ;  to  others  he  nodded,  to  some  he  merely 
gave  a  smile  in  passing,  but  in  each  case  it  was  a  dis- 
tinctive recognition,  and  felt  to  be  such.  He  did  not 
always  raise  his  hat,  and  sometimes  he  did  not  even 
touch  it ;  and  when  laughingly  accused  of  this,  he 
would  say,  "  My  nods  are  on  the  principle  that  my 
hat  is  chronically  lifted,  at  least  to  all  women,  and 
from  that  I  proceed  to  something  more  friendly." 

Once,  on  meeting  a  very  ceremonious  lady,  his  hat 
was  undoubtedly  raised,  and,  when  she  had  passed, 
he  said,  "  I  would  defy  any  man  in  creation  to  keep 
his  hat  near  his  head  at  the  approach  of  that  Being." 
He  was  anything  but  careless  as  to  small  matters  of 
ceremony,  but  then  with  him  that  ceased  to  be  mere 


DR.   JOHN   BROWN.  11 


ceremony,  and  represented  something  real.  His  in- 
variable habit  of  going  to  the  door  with  each  visitor 
sprang  from  the  true  kindliness  of  his  nature.  Often 
the  very  spirit  of  exhilaration  was  thrown  into  his 
parting  smile,  or  into  the  witty  saying,  shot  after  the 
retreating  figure,  compelling  a  turning  round  for  a 
last  look  —  exhilaration  to  his  friend ;  but  any  one 
who  knew  him  well  felt  sure  that,  as  he  gently  closed 
the  door,  the  smile  would  fade,  and  be  succeeded  by 
that  look  of  meditative  pensiveness,  so  characteristic 
of  him  when  not  actually  speaking  or  listening.  He 
often  spoke  of  "  unexpectedness  "  as  having  a  charm, 
and  he  had  it  himself  in  a  very  unusual  degree.  Any- 
thing like  genuine  spontaneity  he  hailed  with  all 
his  heart.  "Drive  this  lady  to  Muttonhole  "  —  it 
was  an  address  he  often  gave  —  he  said  to  a  cabman, 
late  one  evening.  "  Ay,  Doctor,  I  '11  dae  that,"  the 
man  answered,  as  he  vigorously  closed  the  door  and 
prepared  to  mount  without  waiting  for  further  in- 
structions, knowing  well  what  doctor  he  had  to  deal 
with.  "  You  're  a  capital  fellow,"  Dr.  Brown  said  ; 
"  what's  your  name  ?  "  And  doubtless  there  would 
he  a  kindly  recognition  of  the  man  ever  after. 

In  going  to  see  him,  his  friends  never  knew  what 
style  of  greeting  was  in  store  for  them,  for  he  had  no 
formal  method  ;  each  thing  he  said  and  did  was  an 
exact  reflection  of  the  moment's  mood,  and  so  it  was 
a  true  expression  of  his  character.  That  it  would  be 
a  hearty  greeting,  if  he  were  well,  they  knew ;  for 
when  able  for  it,  he  did  enjoy  the  coming  and  going 


12  DR.    JOHN   BROWN. 

of  friends.  At  lunch  time  he  might  often  be  met  in 
the  lobby  on  one  of  his  many  expeditions  to  the  door, 
the  ring  of  the  coming  guest  suggesting  to  the  one  in 
possession  that  he,  or  possibly  she,  must  depart ;  and 
when  encountered  there,  sometimes  a  droll  introduc- 
tion of  the  friends  to  one  another  would  take  place. 
Often  he  sat  in  the  dining-room  at  the  foot  of  the 
table  with  his  back  to  the  door,  and  resolutely  kept 
his  eyes  shut  until  his  outstretched  hand  was  clasped. 
But  perhaps  the  time  and  place  his  friends  will 
most  naturally  recall  in  thinking  of  him,  is  a  winter 
afternoon,  the  gas  lighted,  the  fire  burning  clearly, 
and  he  seated  in  his  own  chair  in  the  drawing-room 
(that  room  that  was  so  true  a  reflection  of  his  char- 
acter), the  evening  paper  in  his  hand,  but  not  so 
deeply  interested  in  it  as  not  to  be  quite  willing  to 
lay  it  down.  If  he  were  reading,  and  you  were  un- 
announced, you  had  almost  reached  his  chair  before 
the  adjustment  of  his  spectacles  allowed  him  to  rec- 
ognize who  had  come  ;  and  the  bright  look,  followed 
by,  "  It  's  you,  is  it  ?  "  was  something  to  remember. 
The  summary  of  the  daily  news  of  the  town  was 
brought  to  him  at  this  hour,  and  the  varied  charac- 
ters of  those  who  brought  it  out  put  him  in  possession 
of  all  shades  of  opinion,  and  enabled  him  to  look  at 
things  from  every  point  of  view.  If  there  had  been 
a  racy  lecture,  or  one  with  some  absurdities  in  it,  or  a 
good  concert,  a  rush  would  be  made  to  Rutland  Street 
to  tell  Dr.  Brown,  and  no  touch  of  enthusiasm  or  hu- 
mor in  the  narration  was  thrown  away  upon  him. 


DR.   JOHN   BROWN.  13 

One  other  time  will  be  remembered.  In  the  even- 
ing after  dinner,  when  again  seated  in  his  own 
chair,  he  would  read  aloud  short  passages  from  the 
book  he  was  specially  interested  in  (and  there  was 
always  one  that  occupied  his  thoughts  chiefly  for  the 
time),  or  would  listen  to  music,  or  would  lead  pleas- 
ant talk.  Or  later  still,  when,  the  work  of  the  day 
over,  and  all  interruptions  at  an  end,  he  went  up 
to  tho  smoking-room  (surely  he  was  a  very  mild 
smoker !),  and  giving  himself  up  entirely  to  the 
friends  who  happened  to  be  with  him,  was  —  all 
those  who  knew  him  best  now  gladly  and  sorrowfully 
remember,  but  can  never  explain,  not  even  to  them- 
selves. 

In  trying  to  describe  any  one,  it  is  usual  to  speak 
of  his  manner;  but  that  word  applied  to  Dr.  Brown 
seems  almost  imnatural,  for  manner  is  considered  as 
a  thing  more  or  less  consciously  acquired,  but  thought 
of  apart  from  the  man.  Now  in  this  sense  of  the 
word  he  had  no  manner,  for  his  manner  was  himself, 
the  visible  and  audible  expression  of  his  whole  na- 
ture. One  has  only  to  picture  the  ludicrousness  as 
well  as  hopelessness  of  any  imitation  of  it,  to  know 
that  it  was  simply  his  own,  and  to  realize  this  is  to 
feel  in  some  degree  the  entire  truthfulness  of  his 
character :  "  If,  therefore,  thine  eye  be  single,  thy 
whole  body  shall  be  full  of  light."  Perhaps  no  one 
who  enjoyed  mirth  so  thoroughly,  or  was  so  much 
the  cause  of  it  in  others,  ever  had  a  quieter  bearing. 
He  had  naturally  a  low  tone  of  voice,  and  he  seldom 


14  DR.   JOHN   BROWN. 

raised  it.  He  never  shouted  any  one  down,  and  did 
not  fight  for  a  place  in  the  arena  of  talk,  but  his 
calm,  honest  tones  claimed  attention,  and  way  was 
gladly  made  for  him.  "  He  acts  as  a  magnet  in  a 
room,"  was  sometimes  said,  and  it  was  true  ;  gently, 
but  surely,  he  became  the  centre  of  whatever  com- 
pany he  was  in. 

When  one  thinks  of  it,  it  was  by  his  smile  and  his 
smile  alone  (sometimes  a  deliberate  "  Capital !  "  was 
added),  that  he  showed  his  relish  for  what  was  told 
him ;  and  yet  how  unmistakable  that  relish  was ! 
"  I  '11  tell  Dr.  Brown,"  was  the  thought  that  came  first 
to  his  friends  on  hearing  anything  genuine,  pathetic, 
or  queer,  and  the  gleam  as  of  sunlight  that  shone  in 
his  eyes,  and  played  round  his  sensitive  mouth  as  he 
listened,  acted  as  an  inspiration,  so  that  friends  and 
even  strangers  he  saw  at  their  best,  and  their  best 
was  better  than  it  would  have  been  without  him. 
They  brought  him  of  their  treasure,  figuratively  and 
literally  too,  for  there  was  not  a  rare  engraving,  a 
copy  of  an  old  edition,  a  valuable  autograph,  any- 
thing that  any  one  in  Edinburgh  greatly  prized,  but 
sooner  or  later  it  found  its  way  to  Rutland  Street, 
"  just  that  Dr.  Brown  might  see  it."  It  seemed  to 
mean  more  even  to  the  owner  himself  when  he  had 
looked  at  it  and  enjoyed  it. 

He  was  so  completely  free  from  real  egotism  that 
in  his  writings  he  uses  the  pronouns  "  I  "  and  "  our  " 
with  perfect  fearlessness.  His  sole  aim  is  to  bring 
himself  into  sympathy  with  his  readers,  and  he 


DR.   JOHN   BROWN.  15 

chooses  the  form  that  will  do  that  most  directly.  The 
most  striking  instance  of  this  is  in  his  Letter  to  Dr. 
Cairns.  In  no  other  way  could  he  so  naturally  have 
told  what  he  wishes  to  tell  of  his  father  and  his 
father's  friends.  In  it  he  is  not  addressing  the  pub- 
lic —  a  thing  he  never  did  —  but  writing  to  a  friend, 
and  in  that  genial  atmosphere  thoughts  and  words 
flow  freely.  He  says  towards  the  beginning,  "  Some- 
times I  have  this  "  (the  idea  of  his  father's  life)  "  so 
vividly  in  my  mind,  that  I  think  I  have  only  to  sit 
down  and  write  it  off,  and  so  it  to  the  quick."  He 
did  sit  down  and  write  it  off,  we  know  with  what  re- 
sult. 

Except  when  clouds  darkened  his  spirit  (which, 
alas !  they  too  often  did),  and  he  looked  inwai'ds  and 
saw  no  light,  he  seemed  to  have  neither  time  nor  oc- 
casion to  think  of  himself  at  all.  His  whole  nature 
found  meat  and  drink  in  lovingly  watching  all  man- 
kind, men,  women,  and  children,  the  lower  animals, 
too  —  only  he  seldom  spoke  of  them  as  lower,  he 
thought  of  them  as  complete  in  themselves.  "  Look 
at  that  creature,"  he  said  on  a  bright,  sunny  day  as 
a  cab-horse  passed,  prancing  considerably  and  rear- 
ing his  head  ;  "  that 's  delightful ;  he  's  happy  in  the 
sunshine,  and  wishes  to  be  looked  at  ;  just  like  some 
of  us  here  on  the  pavement."  How  many  of  us  on 
the  pavement  find  delight  in  the  ongoings  of  a  cab- 
horse  ?  His  dog,  seated  opposite  him  one  day  in  the 
carriage,  suddenly  made  a  bolt  and  disappeared  at 
the  open  window.  "  An  acquaintance  must  have 


16  DR.   JOHN  BROWN. 

passed   whom    he   wished    to    speak    to,"    was    Dr. 
Brown's  explanation  of  his  unexpected  exit. 

In  TJie  Imitation  it  is  said,  "If  thy  heart  were 
sincere  and  upright,  then  every  creature  would  be 
unto  thee  a  looking-glass  of  life."  It  was  so  with  Dr. 
Brown.  His  quick  sympathy  was  truly  personal  in 
each  case,  but  it  did  not  end  there.  It  gladdened 
him  to  call  forth  the  child's  merry  laugh,  for  his 
heart  expanded  with  the  thought  that  joy  was  world- 
wide ;  and  in  the  same  way  sorrow  saddened  him, 
for  it  too  was  everywhere.  He  discovered  with  keen- 
est insight  all  that  lay  below  the  surface,  dwelling  on 
the  good,  and  bringing  it  to  the  light,  while  from 
what  was  bad  or  hopelessly  foolish  he  simply  turned 
aside.  He  had  friends  in  all  ranks  of  life,  "  from 
the  peasant  to  the  peer,"  as  the  phrase  is,  and 
higher.  He  was  constantly  forming  links  with  those 
whom  he  met,  and  they  were  links  that  held  fast,  for 
he  never  forgot  any  one  with  whom  he  had  had  real 
contact  of  spirit,  and  the  way  in  which  he  formed 
this  contact  was  perhaps  the  most  wonderful  thing 
about  him.  A  word,  a  look,  would  put  him  in  pos- 
session of  all  that  was  best  and  truest  in  a  character. 
And  it  was  character  that  he  thought  of  ;  surround- 
ings were  very  secondary  witli  him.  Though  he 
thoroughly  appreciated  a  beautiful  setting,  the  want 
of  it  did  not  repel  him.  "  Come  and  see  a  first-rate 
man,"  he  said  to  me  one  day  as  he  met  me  at  the 
door.  And  here  in  the  dining-room  stood  a  stalwart 
countryman,  clad  in  rough  homespun,  with  a  brightly- 


DR.    JOHN    BROWN.  17 

colored  "  cravat "  about  his  neck,  his  face  glowing 
with  pleasure  as  his  friend  (for  he  evidently  consid- 
ered Dr.  Brown  his  friend)  looked  up  at  him.  They 
had  met  that  morning,  when  the  man  came  asking 
admission  for  a  child  to  the  Infirmary,  and  now  he 
had  returned  to  report  his  success.  The  look  of 
keen  and  kindly  interest  with  which  every  word  was 
listened  to  might  well  encourage  him  to  "  go  on," 
as  he  was  frequently  told  to  do.  "  The  wife  "  fig- 
ured now  and  then  in  the  narration,  and  as  he  rose 
to  go,  the  beaming  look  with  which  Dr.  Brown  said, 
"  And  you  're  fond  of  your  wife  ?  "  was  met  by  a 
broad  smile  of  satisfaction,  and  "Ay,  I  'm  fond  o' 
her,"  followed  by  a  hearty  shake  of  the  hand.  "  His 
feelings  are  as  delicate  as  his  body  is  big,"  was  Dr. 
Brown's  remark  as  he  returned  to  the  room  after 
going  with  him  to  the  door. 

It  is  Ruskin  who  says,  "  The  greatest  thing  a  hu- 
man soul  ever  does  is  to  see  something,  and  tell  what 
it  saw  in  a  plain  way.  To  see  clearly  is  poetry,  pro- 
phecy, and  religion  all  in  one."  Dr.  Brown  was  con- 
stantly seeing  what  others  did  not  see,  and  the  desire 
to  tell  it,  to  make  others  share  his  feelings,  forced 
him  to  write,  or  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  do  so 
when  not  in  writing  mood.  To  prescribe  a  subject 
to  him  was  useless,  and  worse.  What  truer  or 
shorter  explanation  can  be  given  of  the  fascination 
of  Rob  and  his  Friends  than  that  in  James,  in 
Ailie,  and  in  Rab  he  "saw  something"  that  others 
did  not  see,  and  told  what  he  saw  in  "  a  plain  way," 


18  DR.   JOHN   BROWN. 

—  in  a  perfect  way,  too.  "  Was  n't  she  a  grand 
little  creature  ?  "  he  said  about  "  Marjorie,"  only  a 
few  months  before  his  death.  "  And  grand  that  you 
have  made  thousands  know  her,  and  love  her,  after 
she  has  been  in  heaven  for  seventy  years  and  more," 
was  the  answer.  "  Yes,  /  am  glad"  he  said,  and 
he  looked  it  too.  He  was  not  thinking  of  Marjorie 
Fleming  one  of  his  literary  productions,  as  it  would 
be  called,  but  of  the  bright,  eager  child  herself. 

But  the  words  he  applied  to  Dr.  Chalmers  are 
true  as  regards  myself :  "  We  cannot  now  go  very 
curiously  to  work  to  scrutinize  the  composition  of  his 
character  :  we  cannot  take  that  large,  free,  genial 
nature  to  pieces,  and  weigh  this  and  measure  that, 
and  sum  up  and  pronounce ;  we  are  so  near  as  yet 
to  him  and  to  his  loss,  he  is  too  dear  to  us  to  be 
so  handled.  '  His  death,'  to  use  the  pathetic  words 
of  Hartley  Coleridge,  '  is  a  recent  sorrow,  his  image 
still  lives  in  eyes  that  weep  for  him.' "  Though 
necessarily  all  his  life  coming  into  close  contact  with 
sickness  and  death,  he  never  became  accustomed,  as 
so  many  seem  to  do,  to  their  sorrowfulness  and  mys- 
tery, and  the  tear  and  wear  of  spirit  involved  in  so 
many  of  his  patients  being  also  his  close  personal 
friends,  was,  without  doubt,  a  cause  of  real  injury  to 
his  own  health. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  expression  of  his  face  as 
he  stood  looking  at  his  friend  Sir  George  Harvey, 
for  the  last  time.  He  had  sat  for  a  long  while  hold- 
ing the  nearly  pulseless  wrist,  then  he  rose,  and  with 


DR.   JOHN   BROWN.  19 

folded  hands  stood  looking  down  earnestly  on  the 
face  already  stamped  with  the  nobility  of  death,  his 
own  nearly  as  pale,  but  weaving,  too,  the  traces  of 
care  and  sorrow  which  had  now  forever  vanished 
from  his  friend's.  For  many  minutes  he  stood  quite 
still  as  if  rapt  in  thought ;  then  slowly  stooping,  he 
reverently  kissed  the  brow,  and  silently,  without 
speaking  one  word,  he  left  the  room. 

I  have  spoken  of  the  first  time  I  saw  him  :  shall  I 
tell  of  the  last  —  of  that  wet,  dreary  Sunday,  so 
unlike  a  day  in  spring,  when  with  the  church  bells 
ringing,  John  took  me  up  to  his  room,  and  left  me 
there  ?  He  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  but  looked  weaker 
*  than  one  would  have  expected  after  only  two  days' 
illness,  and  twice  pointing  to  his  chest,  he  said,  "  I 
know  this  is  something  vital ;  "  and  then  musingly, 
almost  as  if  he  were  speaking  of  some  one  else,  "  It 's 
sad,  Cecy,  is  n't  it  ?  "  But  he  got  much  brighter 
after  a  minute  or  two,  noticed  some  change  in  my 
dress,  approved  of  it,  then  asked  if  I  had  been  to 
church,  and,  "  What  was  the  text  ?  "  smiling  as  he 
did  so,  as  if  he  half  expected  I  had  forgotten  it.  I 
told  him,  "  In  the  world  ye  shall  have  tribulation ; 
but  be  of  good  cheer,  I  have  overcome  the  world." 
"  Wonderful  words,"  he  said,  folding  his  hands  and 
closing  his  eyes,  and  repeated  slowly,  "  Be  of  good 
cheer ;  "  then,  after  a  pause,  "  And  from  Him,  our 
Saviour."  In  a  minute  or  two  I  rose,  fearing  to  stay 
too  long,  but  he  looked  surprised,  and  asked  me  what 
1  meant  by  going  so  soon.  So  I  sat  down  again.  He 


20  DR.   JOHN   BROWN. 

asked  me  what  books  I  was  reading,  and  I  told  him, 
and  he  spoke  a  little  of  them.  Then  suddenly,  as  if 
it  had  just  flashed  upon  him,  he  said  "Ah!  I  have 
done  nothing  to  your  brother's  papers  but  look  at 
them,  and  felt  the  material  was  splendid,  and  now  it 
is  too  late."  Some  months  before,  when  he  was  ex- 
ceedingly well  and  cheerful,  he  had  told  me  to  bring 
him  two  manuscript  books  I  had  once  shown  him, 
saying,  "  I  have  often  felt  I  could  write  abont  him, 
as  good  a  text  as  Arthur  Hallam."  I  told  him  it 
would  be  the  greatest  boon  were  he  to  do  it ;  but  he 
warned  me  not  to  hope  too  much.  After  a  few  min- 
utes, again  I  rose  to  go.  His  "  Thank  you  for  com- 
ing," I  answered  by,  "  Thank  you  for  letting  me 
come  ;  "  and  then,  yielding  to  a  sudden  impulse,  for 
I  seldom  ventured  on  such  ground,  I  added,  "  And 
I  can  never  half  thank  you  for  all  you  have  been  to 
me  all  these  years."  "  No,  yon  must  n't  thank  me," 
he  said  sadly,  and  a  word  or  two  more,  "  but  re- 
member me  when  yon  pray  to  God."  I  answered 
more  by  look  and  clasp  of  his  hand  than  by  word ; 
but  he  did  feel  that  I  had  answered  him,  for  "  That 's 
right,"  he  said  firmly,  his  face  brightening,  and  as  I 
reached  the  door,  "  Come  again  soon." 

The  next  time  I  was  in  that  room,  four  days  after, 
it  was  to  look  on  "  that  beautiful  sealed  face,"  and  to 
feel  that  the  pure  in  heart  had  seen  God.  Sir  George 
Harvey  once  said,  "  I  like  to  think  what  the  first 
glint  of  heaven  will  be  to  John  Brown."  He  has 
got  it  now.  What  more  can  or  need  we  say  ? 


RAB  AND  HIS  FRIENDS. 

FOTJR-AJTD-THIRTY  years  ago,  Bob  Ainslie  and  I 
were  coming  up  Infirmary  Street  from  the  Edinburgh. 
High  School,  our  heads  together,  and  our  arms  inter- 
twisted, as  only  lovers  and  boys  know  how,  or  why. 

When  we  got  to  the  top  of  the  street,  and  turned 
north,  we  espied  a  crowd  at  the  Tron  Church.  "  A 
dog-fight !  "  shouted  Bob,  and  was  off ;  and  so  was  I, 
both  of  us  all  but  praying  that  it  might  not  be  over 
before  we  got  up  !  And  is  not  this  boy-nature  ?  and 
human  nature  too  ?  and  don't  we  all  wish  a  house  on 
fire  not  to  be  out  before  we  see  it  ?  Dogs  like  fight- 
ing ;  old  Isaac  says  they  "  delight "  in  it,  and  for  the 
best  of  all  reasons  ;  and  boys  are  not  cruel  because 
they  like  to  see  the  fight.  They  see  three  of  the  great 
cardinal  virtues  of  dog  or  man  —  courage,  endurance, 
and  skill  —  in  intense  action.  This  is  very  differ- 
ent from  a  love  of  making  dogs  fight,  and  enjoying, 
and  aggravating,  and  making  gain  by  their  pluck. 
A  boy  —  be  he  ever  so  fond  himself  of  fighting,  if  he 
be  a  good  boy,  hates  and  despises  all  this,  but  he 
would  have  run  off  with  Bob  and  me  fast  enough  :  it 
is  a  natural,  and  a  not  wicked  interest,  that  all  boys 
and  men  have  in  witnessing  intense  energy  in  action. 


22  RAB   AND   HIS   FRIENDS. 

Does  any  curious  and  finely-ignorant  woman  wish 
to  know  how  Boh's  eye  at  a  glance  announced  a  dog- 
fight to  his  brain  ?  He  did  not,  he  could  not  see  the 
dogs  fighting ;  it  was  a  flash  of  an  inference,  a  rapid 
induction.  The  crowd  round  a  couple  of  dogs  fight- 
ing, is  a  crowd  masculine  mainly,  with  an  occasional 
active,  compassionate  woman,  fluttering  wildly  round 
the  outside,  and  using  her  tongue  and  her  hands 
freely  upon  the  men,  as  so  many  "  brutes  ; "  it  is  a 
crowd  annular,  compact,  and  mobile ;  a  crowd  cen- 
tripetal, having  its  eyes  and  its  heads  all  bent  down- 
wards and  inwards,  to  one  common  focus. 

Well,  Bob  and  I  are  up,  and  find  it  is  not  over  : 
a  small  thoroughbred,  white  Bull  Terrier,  is  busy 
throttling  a  large  shepherd's  dog,  unaccustomed  to 
war,  but  not  to  be  trifled  with.  They  are  hard  at 
it ;  the  scientific  little  fellow  doing  his  work  in  great 
style,  his  pastoral  enemy  fighting  wildly,  but  with 
the  sharpest  of  teeth  and  a  great  courage.  Science 
and  breeding,  however,  soon  had  their  own ;  the 
Game  Chicken,  as  the  premature  Bob  called  him, 
working  his  way  up,  took  his  final  grip  of  poor  Yar- 
row's throat,  —  and  he  lay  gasping  and  done  for. 
His  master,  a  brown,  handsome,  big  young  shepherd 
from  Tweedsmuir,  would  have  liked  to  have  knocked 
down  any  man,  would  "  drink  up  Esil,  or  eat  a  croco- 
dile," for  that  part,  if  he  had  a  chance  :  it  was  no 
nse  kicking  the  little  dog ;  that  would  only  make 
him  hold  the  closer.  Many  were  the  means  shouted 
out  in  mouthfuls,  of  the  best  possible  ways  of  ending 


RAB   AND   HIS   FRIENDS.  23 

it.  "  Water  !  "  but  there  was  none  near,  and  many 
cried  for  it  who  might  have  got  it  from  the  well  at 
Blackfriars  Wynd.  "  Bite  the  tail !  "  and  a  large, 
vague,  benevolent,  middle-aged  man,  more  desirous 
than  wise,  with  some  struggle  got  the  bushy  end  of 
Yarrow's  tail  into  his  ample  mouth,  and  bit  it  with 
all  his  might.  This  was  more  than  enough  for  the 
much-enduring,  much-perspiring  shepherd,  who,  with 
a  gleam  of  joy  over  his  broad  visage,  delivered  a  ter- 
rific facer  upon  our  large,  vague,  benevolent,  middle- 
aged  friend,  —  who  went  down  like  a  shot. 

Still  the  Chicken  holds  ;  death  not  far  off.  "  Snuff  ! 
a  pinch  of  snuff ! "  observed  a  calm,  highly-dressed 
young  buck,  with  an  eye-glass  in  his  eye.  "  Snuff, 
indeed !  "  growled  the  angry  crowd,  affronted  and 
glaring.  "  Snuff  !  a  pinch  of  snuff !  "  again  observed 
the  buck,  but  with  more  urgency  ;  whereon  were  pro- 
duced several  open  boxes,  and  from  a  mull  which 
may  have  been  at  Culloden,  he  took  a  pinch,  knelt 
down,  and  presented  it  to  the  nose  of  the  Chicken. 
The  laws  of  physiology  and  of  snuff  take  their  course ; 
the  Chicken  sneezes,  and  Yarrow  is  free ! 

The  young  pastoral  giant  stalks  off  with  Yarrow 
in  his  arms,  —  comforting  him. 

But  the  Bull  Terrier's  blood  is  up,  and  his  soul  un- 
satisfied ;  he  grips  the  first  dog  he  meets,  and  discov- 
ering she  is  not  a  dog,  in  Homeric  phrase,  he  makes 
a  brief  sort  of  amende,  and  is  off.  The  boys,  with 
Bob  and  me  at  their  head,  are  after  him :  down  Nid- 
dry  Street  he  goes,  bent  on  mischief ;  up  the  Cow- 


24  EAB   AND   HIS   FRIENDS. 

gate  like  an  arrow  —  Bob  and  I,  and  our  small  men, 
panting  behind. 

There,  under  the  single  arch  of  the  South  Bridge, 
is  a  huge  mastiff,  sauntering  down  the  middle  of  the 
causeway,  as  if  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets :  he  is 
old,  gray,  brindled,  as  big  as  a  little  Highland  bull, 
and  has  the  Shakesperian  dewlaps  shaking  as  he 
goes. 

The  Chicken  makes  straight  at  him,  and  fastens  on 
his  throat.  To  our  astonishment,  the  great  creature 
does  nothing  but  stand  still,  hold  himself  up,  and 
roar  —  yes,  roar ;  a  long,  serious,  remonstrative 
roar.  How  is  this  ?  Bob  and  I  are  up  to  them. 
He  is  muzzled  !  The  bailies  had  proclaimed  a  gen- 
eral muzzling,  and  his  master,  studying  strength  and 
economy  mainly,  had  encompassed  his  huge  jaws  in 
a  home-made  apparatus,  constructed  out  of  the  leather 
of  some  ancient  breechin.  His  mouth  was  open  as 
far  as  it  could ;  his  lips  curled  up  in  rage  —  a  sort 
of  terrible  grin  ;  his  teeth  gleaming,  ready,  from  out 
the  darkness ;  the  strap  across  his  mouth  tense  as  a 
bowstring ;  his  whole  frame  stiff  with  indignation 
and  surprise  ;  his  roar  asking  us  all  round,  "  Did 
you  ever  see  the  like  of  this?"  He  looked  a  statue 
of  anger  and  astonishment,  done  in  Aberdeen  granite. 

We  soon  had  a  crowd  :  the  Chicken  held  on.  "  A 
knife ! "  cried  Bob ;  and  a  cobbler  gave  him  his 
knife  :  you  know  the  kind  of  knife,  worn  away  ob- 
liquely to  a  point,  and  always  keen.  I  put  its  edge 
to  the  tense  leather ;  it  ran  before  it ;  and  then ! 


RAB   AND   HIS   FRIENDS.  25 

• —  one  sudden  jerk  of  that  enormous  head,  a  sort  of 
dirty  mist  about  his  mouth,  no  noise,  —  and  the 
bright  and  fierce  little  fellow  is  dropped,  limp,  and 
dead.  A  solemn  pause :  this  was  more  than  any  of  us 
had  bargained  for.  I  turned  the  little  fellow  over,  and 
saw  he  was  quite  dead ;  the  mastiff  had  taken  him 
by  the  small  of  the  back  like  a  rat,  and  broken  it. 

He  looked  down  at  his  victim  appeased,  ashamed, 
and  amazed  ;  snuffed  him  all  over,  stared  at  him,  and 
taking  a  sudden  thought,  turned  round  and  trotted 
off.  Bob  took  the  dead  dog  up,  and  said,  "  John, 
we  '11  bury  him  after  tea."  "  Yes,"  said  I,  and  was 
off  after  the  mastiff.  He  made  up  the  Cowgate  at  a 
rapid  swing ;  he  had  forgotten  some  engagement. 
He  turned  up  the  Candlemaker  Row,  and  stopped  at 
the  Harrow  Inn. 

There  was  a  carrier's  cart  ready  to  start,  and  a 
keen,  thin,  impatient,  black-a-vised  little  man,  his 
hand  at  his  gray  horse's  head,  looking  about  angrily 
for  something.  "  Rab,  ye  thief  !  "  said  he,  aiming  a 
kick  at  my  great  friend,  who  drew  cringing  up,  and 
avoiding  the  heavy  shoe  with  more  agility  than  dig- 
nity, and  watching  his  master's  eye,  slunk  dismayed 
under  the  cart,  —  his  ears  down,  and  as  much  as  he 
had  of  tail  down  too. 

What  a  man  this  must  be  —  thought  I  —  to  whom 
my  tremendous  hero  turns  tail !  The  carrier  saw  the 
muzzle  hanging,  cut  and  useless,  from  his  neck,  and  I 
eagerly  told  him  the  story,  which  Bob  and  I  always 
thought,  and  still  think,  Homer,  or  King  David,  or  Sir 


26  RAB    AND   HIS    FRIENDS. 

Walter  alone  were  worthy  to  rehearse.  The  severe  lit- 
tle man  was  mitigated,  and  condescended  to  say,  "  Rab, 
my  man,  puir  Rabbie,"  —  whereupon  the  stump  of  a 
tail  rose  up,  the  ears  were  cocked,  the  eyes  filled,  and 
were  comforted ;  the  two  friends  were  reconciled. 
"  Hupp !  "  and  a  stroke  of  the  whip  were  given  to 
Jess  ;  and  off  went  the  three. 

Bob  and  I  buried  the  Game  Chicken  that  night  (we 
had  not  much  of  a  tea)  in  the  back-green  of  his  house 
in  Melville  Street,  No.  17,  with  considerable  gravity 
and  silence ;  and  being  at  the  time  in  the  Iliad,  and, 
like  all  boys,  Trojans,  we  called  him  Hector  of 
course. 


Six  years  have  passed,  —  a  long  time  for  a  boy  and 
a  dog  :  Bob  Ainslie  is  off  to  the  wars ;  I  am  a  med- 
ical student,  and  clerk  at  Minto  House  Hospital. 

Rab  I  saw  almost  every  week,  on  the  Wednesday, 
and  we  had  much  pleasant  intimacy.  I  found  the 
way  to  his  heart  by  frequent  scratching  of  his  huge 
head,  and  an  occasional  bone.  When  I  did  not  notice 
him  he  would  plant  himself  straight  before  me,  and 
stand  wagging  that  bud  of  a  tail,  and  looking  up,  with 
his  head  a  little  to  the  one  side.  His  master  I  occa- 
sionally saw;  he  used  to  call  me  "Maister  John,"  but 
was  laconic  as  any  Spartan. 

One  fine  October  afternoon,  I  was  leaving  the 
hospital,  when  I  saw  the  large  gate  open,  and  in 


RAB   AND    HIS    FRIENDS.  27 

walked  Rab,  with  that  great  and  easy  saunter  of  his. 
He  looked  as  if  taking  general  possession  of  the  place  ; 
like  the  Duke  of  Wellington  entering  a  subdued  city, 
satiated  with  victory  and  peace.  After  him  came  Jess, 
now  white  from  age,  with  her  cart ;  and  in  it  a  •u-o- 
man,  carefully  wrapped  up,  —  the  carrier  leading  the 
horse  anxiously,  and  looking  back.  When  he  saw 
me,  James  (for  his  name  was  James  Noble)  made  a 
curt  and  grotesque  "  boo,"  and  said,  "  Maister  John, 
this  is  the  mistress  ;  she  's  got  a  trouble  in  her  breest 
—  some  kind  o'  an  income  we  're  thinking." 

By  this  time  I  saw  the  woman's  face ;  she  was  sit- 
ting on  a  sack  filled  with  straw,  her  husband's  plaid 
round  her,  and  his  big-coat  with  its  large  white  metal 
buttons,  over  her  feet. 

I  never  saw  a  more  unforgetable  face  —  pale,  seri- 
ous, lonely,1  delicate,  sweet,  without  being  at  all  what 
we  call  fine.  She  looked  sixty,  and  had  on  a  mutch, 
white  as  snow,  with  its  black  ribbon ;  her  silvery, 
smooth  hair  setting  off  her  dark-gray  eyes  —  eyes 
such  as  one  sees  only  twice  or  thrice  in  a  lifetime,  full 
of  suffering,  full  also  of  the  overcoming  of  it :  her 
eyebrows  black  and  delicate,  and  her  mouth  firm, 
patient,  and  contented,  which  few  mouths  ever  are. 

As  I  have  said,  I  never  saw  a  more  beautiful  coun- 
tenance, or  one  more  subdued  to  settled  quiet. 
"  Ailie,"  said  James,  "  this  is  Maister  John,  the  young 
doctor ;  Rab's  f reend,  ye  ken.  We  often  speak  aboot 

1  It  is  not  easy  giving  this  look  by  one  word ;  it  was  expres-- 
sive  of  her  being  so  muck  of  her  life  alone. 


28  BAB  AND   HIS  FRIENDS. 

you,  doctor."  She  smiled,  and  made  a  movement, 
but  said  nothing ;  and  prepared  to  come  down,  put- 
ting her  plaid  aside  and  rising.  Had  Solomon,  in  all 
his  glory,  been  handing  down  the  Queen  of  Sheba  at 
his  palace  gate  he  could  not  have  done  it  more  dain- 
tily, more  tenderly,  more  like  a  gentleman,  than  did 
James  the  Howgate  carrier,  when  he  lifted  down 
Ailie  his  wife.  The  contrast  of  his  small,  swarthy, 
weather  -  beaten,  keen,  worldly  face  to  hers  —  pale, 
subdued,  and  beautiful  —  was  something  wonderful. 
Rab  looked  on  concerned  and  puzzled,  but  ready  for 
anything  that  might  turn  up,  —  were  it  to  strangle  the 
nurse,  the  porter,  or  even  me.  Ailie  and  he  seemed 
great  friends. 

"  As  I  was  sayin'  she  's  got  a  kind  o'  trouble  in  her 
breest,  doctor ;  wull  ye  tak'  a  look  at  it  ?  "  We 
walked  into  the  consulting-room,  all  four ;  Rab  grim 
and  comic,  willing  to  be  happy  and  confidential  if 
cause  could  be  shown,  willing  also  to  be  the  reverse, 
on  the  same  terms.  Ailie  sat  clown,  undid  her  open 
gown  and  her  lawn  handkerchief  round  her  neck,  and 
without  a  word,  showed  me  her  right  breast.  I 
looked  at  and  examined  it  carefully,  —  she  and  James 
watching  me,  and  Rab  eying  all  three.  What  could 
I  say  ?  there  it  was,  that  had  once  been  so  soft,  so 
shapely,  so  white,  so  gracious  and  bountiful,  so  u  full 
of  all  blessed  conditions,"  —  hard  as  a  stone,  a  centre 
of  horrid  pain,  making  that  pale  face,  with  its  gray, 
lucid,  reasonable  eyes,  and  its  sweet  resolved  mouth, 
express  the  full  measure  of  suffering  overcome.  Why 


RAB   AND   HIS   FRIENDS.  29 

was  that  gentle,  modest,  sweet  woman,  clean  and 
lovable,  condemned  by  God  to  bear  such  a  burden  ? 

I  got  her  away  to  bed.  "  May  Rab  and  me  bide  ?  'T 
said  James.  "  You  may ;  and  Rab,  if  he  will  behave 
himself."  "  I  'se  warrant  he  's  do  that,  doctor ; "  and 
in  slank  the  faithful  beast.  I  wish  you  could  have 
seen  him.  There  are  no  such  dogs  now.  He  be- 
longed to  a  lost  tribe.  As  I  have  said,  he  was 
brindled  and  gray  like  Rubislaw  granite ;  his  hair 
short,  hard,  and  close,  like  a  lion's;  his  body  thick 
get,  like  a  little  bull  —  a  sort  of  compressed  Hercules 
of  a  dog.  He  must  have  been  ninety  pounds'  weight, 
at  the  least ;  he  had  a  large  blunt  head ;  his  muzzle 
black  as  night,  his  mouth  blacker  than  any  night,  a 
tooth  or  two  —  being  all  he  had  —  gleaming  out  of 
his  jaws  of  darkness.  His  head  was  scarred  with  the 
records  of  old  wounds,  a  sort  of  series  of  fields  of 
battle  all  over  it ;  one  eye  out,  one  ear  cropped  as 
close  as  was  Archbishop  Leighton's  father's ;  the  re- 
maining eye  had  the  power  of  two;  and  above  it,  and 
in  constant  communication  with  it,  was  a  tattered  rag 
of  an  ear,  which  was  forever  unfurling  itself,  like  an 
old  flag ;  and  then  that  bud  of  a  tail,  about  one  inch 
long,  if  it  could  in  any  sense  be  said  to  be  long,  being 
as  broad  as  long  — the  mobility,  the  instantaneousness 
of  that  bud  were  very  funny  and  surprising,  and  its 
expressive  twinklings  and  winkings,  the  intercom- 
munications between  the  eye,  the  ear,  and  it,  were  of 
the  oddest  and  swiftest. 

Rab  had  the  dignity  and  simplicity  of  great  size; 


30  RAB   AND   HIS   FRIENDS. 

and  having  fought  his  way  all  along  the  road  to  abso- 
lute supremacy,  he  was  as  mighty  in  his  own  line  as 
Julius  Caesar  or  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  and  had  the 
gravity  *  of  all  great  fighters. 

You  must  have  often  observed  the  likeness  of  cer- 
tain men  to  certain  animals,  and  of  certain  dogs  to 
men.  Now,  I  never  looked  at  Rab  without  thinking 
of  the  great  Baptist  preacher,  Andrew  Fuller.2  The 
same  large,  heavy,  menacing,  combative,  sombre, 
honest  countenance,  the  same  deep  inevitable  eye, 
the  same  look,  —  as  of  thunder  asleep,  but  ready,  — 
neither  a  dog  nor  a  man  to  be  trifled  with. 

Next  day,  my  master,  the  surgeon,  examined  Ailie. 
There  was  no  doubt  it  must  kill  her,  and  soon.  It 
could  be  removed  —  it  might  never  return  —  it  would 
give  her  speedy  relief  —  she  should  have  it  done. 

1  A  Highland  game-keeper,  when  asked  why  a  certain  ter- 
rier, of  singular  pluck,  was  so  much  more  solemn  than  the  other 
dogs,  said,  "  Oh,  Sir,  life 's  full  o'  sairiousness  to  him  —  he  just 
never  can  get  enuff  o'  fechtin'." 

2  Fuller  was,  in  early  life,  when  a  farmer  lad  at  Soham, 
famous  as  a  boxer ;  not  quarrelsome,  but  not  without  ' '  the 
stern  delight "  a  man  of  strength  and  courage  feels  in  their 
exercise.     Dr.  Charles  Stewart,  of  Dunearn,  whose  rare  gifts 
and  graces  as  a  physician,  a  divine,  a  scholar,  and  a  gentleman, 
live  only  in  the  memory  of  those  few  who  knew  and  survive 
him,  liked  to  tell  how  Mr.  Fuller  used  to  say,  that  when  he 
was  in  the  pulpit,  and  saw  a   buirdly  man   come  along  the 
passage,  he  would  instinctively  draw  himself  up,  measure  his 
imaginary  antagonist,  and  forecast  how  he  would  deal  with 
him,  his  hands  meanwhile  condensing  into  fists,  and  tending 
to  "square."     He  must  have  been  a  hard  hitter  if  he  boxed 
as  he  preached  —  what  "The  Fancy"  would  call  "an  ugly 
customer." 


RAB   AND   HIS   FRIENDS.  31 

She  curtsied,  looked  at  James,  and  said,  "  When  ?  " 
"  To-morrow,"  said  the  kind  surgeon —  a  man  of  few 
words.  She  and  James  and  Rab  and  I  retired.  I 
noticed  that  he  and  she  spoke  little,  but  seemed  to 
anticipate  everything  in  each  other.  The  following 
day,  at  noon,  the  students  came  in,  hurrying  up  the 
great  stair.  At  the  first  landing-place,  on  a  small 
well-known  blackboard,  was  a  bit  of  paper  fastened 
by  wafers  and  many  remains  of  old  wafers  beside  it. 
On  the  paper  were  the  words,  —  "  An  operation  to- 
day. J.  B.  Clerk." 

Up  ran  the  youths,  eager  to  secure  good  places ;  in 
they  crowded,  full  of  interest  and  talk.  "  What 's 
the  case  ?  "  "  Which  side  is  it  ?  " 

Don't  think  them  heartless ;  they  are  neither  bet- 
ter nor  worse  than  you  or  I ;  they  get  over  their  pro- 
fessional horrors,  and  into  their  proper  work  —  and 
in  them  pity  —  as  an  emotion,  ending  in  itself  or  at 
best  in  tears  and  a  long-drawn  breath  —  lessens,  while 
pity  as  a  motive  is  quickened,  and  gains  power  and 
purpose.  It  is  well  for  poor  human  nature  that  it 
is  so. 

The  operating  theatre  is  crowded  ;  much  talk  and 
fun,  and  all  the  cordiality  and  stir  of  youth.  The 
surgeon  with  his  staff  of  assistants  is  there.  In  comes 
Ailie  :  one  look  at  her  quiets  and  abates  the  eager 
students.  That  beautiful  old  woman  is  too  much  for 
them  ;  they  sit  down,  and  are  dumb,  and  gaze  at  her. 
These  rough  boys  feel  the  power  of  her  presence. 
She  walks  in  quickly,  but  without  haste ;  dressed  in 


32  RAB   AND   HIS   FRIENDS. 

her  mutch,  her  neckerchief,  her  white  dimity  short- 
gown,  her  black  bombazine  petticoat,  showing  her 
white  worsted  stockings  and  her  carpet-shoes.  Be- 
hind her  was  James  with  Rab.  James  sat  down  in 
the  distance,  and  took  that  huge  and  noble  head  be- 
tween his  knees.  Rab  looked  perplexed  and  danger- 
ous ;  forever  cocking  his  ear  and  dropping  it  as  fast. 

Ailie  stepped  up  on  a  seat,  and  laid  herself  on  the 
table,  as  her  friend  the  surgeon  told  her ;  arranged 
herself,  gave  a  rapid  look  at  James,  shut  her  eyes, 
rested  herself  on  me,  and  took  my  hand.  The  oper- 
ation was  at  once  begun  ;  it  was  necessarily  slow ; 
and  chloroform  —  one  of  God's  best  gifts  to  his  suf- 
fering children  —  was  then  unknown.  The  surgeon 
did  his  work.  The  pale  face  showed  its  pain,  but 
was  still  and  silent.  Rab's  soul  was  working  within 
him  ;  he  saw  that  something  strange  was  going  on,  — 
blood  flowing  from  his  mistress,  and  she  suffering; 
his  ragged  ear  was  up,  and  importunate  ;  he  growled 
and  gave  now  and  then  a  sharp  impatient  yelp ;  he 
would  have  liked  to  have  done  something  to  that 
man.  But  James  had  him  firm,  and  gave  him  a  glower 
from  time  to  time,  and  an  intimation  of  a  possible 
kick  ;  —  all  the  better  for  James,  it  kept  his  eye  and 
his  mind  off  Ailie. 

It  is  over :  she  is  dressed,  steps  gently  and  decently 
down  from  the  table,  looks  for  James  ;  then,  turning 
to  the  surgeon  and  the  students,  she  curtsies,  —  and 
in  a  low,  clear  voice,  begs  their  pardon  if  she  has 
behaved  ill.  The  students  —  all  of  us  —  wept  like 


RAB   AND   HIS   FRIENDS.  33 

children ;  the  surgeon  happed  her  up  carefully,  — 
and,  resting  on  James  and  me,  Ailie  went  to  her  room, 
Rab  following.  We  put  her  to  bed.  James  took 
off  his  heavy  shoes,  crammed  with  tackets,  heel-capt, 
and  toe-capt  and  put  them  carefully  under  the  table, 
saying,  "  Maister  John,  I  'm  for  nane  o'  yer  strynge 
nurse  bodies  for  Ailie.  I  '11  be  her  nurse,  and  I  '11 
gang  aboot  on  my  stockin'  soles  as  canny  as  pussy." 
And  so  he  did  ;  and  handy  and  clever,  and  swift  and 
tender  as  any  woman,  was  that  horny-handed,  snell, 
peremptory  little  man.  Everything  she  got  he  gave 
her:  he  seldom  slept;  and  often  I  saw  his  small 
shrewd  eyes  out  of  the  darkness,  fixed  on  her.  As 
before,  they  spoke  little. 

Rab  behaved  well,  never  moving,  showing  us  how 
meek  and  gentle  he  could  be,  and  occasionally,  in  his 
sleep,  letting  us  know  that  he  was  demolishing  some 
adversary.  He  took  a  walk  with  me  every  day,  gen- 
erally to  the  Candlemaker  Row ;  but  he  was  sombre 
and  mild ;  declined  doing  battle,  though  some  fit 
cases  offered,  and  indeed  submitted  to  sundry  indig- 
nities ;  and  was  always  very  ready  to  turn,  and  came 
faster  back,  and  trotted  up  the  stair  with  much  light- 
ness, and  went  straight  to  that  door. 

Jess,  the  mare,  had  been  sent,  with  her  weather- 
worn cart,  to  Howgate,  and  had  doubtless  her  own 
dim  and  placid  meditations  and  confusions,  on  the 
absence  of  her  master  and  Rab,  and  her  unnatural 
freedom  from  the  road  and  her  cart. 

For  some  days  Ailie  did  well.     The  wound  healed 


34  RAB   AND  HIS   FRIENDS. 

"  by  the  first  intention ; "  for  as  James  said,  "  Our 
Ailie's  skin  's  ower  clean  to  beil."  The  students 
came  in  quiet  and  anxious,  and  surrounded  her  bed. 
She  said  she  liked  to  see  their  young,  honest  faces. 
The  surgeon  dressed  her,  and  spoke  to  her  in  his 
own  short  kind  way,  pitying  her  through  his  eyes, 
Rab  and  James  outside  the  circle,  —  Rab  being  now 
reconciled,  and  even  cordial,  and  having  made  up 
his  mind  that  as  yet  nobody  required  worrying,  but, 
as  you  may  suppose,  semper  paratus. 

So  far  well :  but,  four  days  after  the  operation, 
my  patient  had  a  sudden  and  long  shivering,  a 
"  groosin',''  as  she  called  it.  I  saw  her  soon  after  ; 
her  eyes  were  too  bright,  her  cheek  colored ;  she  was 
restless,  and  ashamed  of  being  so ;  the  balance  was 
lost ;  mischief  had  begun.  On  looking  at  the  wound, 
a  blush  of  red  told  the  secret :  her  pulse  was  rapid, 
her  breathing  anxious  and  quick,  she  was  n't  herself, 
as  she  said,  and  was  vexed  at  her  restlessness.  We 
tried  what  we  could ;  James  did  everything,  was  ev- 
erywhere ;  never  in  the  way,  never  out  of  it ;  Rab 
subsided  under  the  table  into  a  dark  place,  and  was 
motionless,  all  but  his  eye,  which  followed  every  one. 
Ailie  got  worse ;  began  to  wander  in  her  mind, 
gently ;  was  more  demonstrative  in  her  ways  to 
James,  rapid  in  her  questions,  and  sharp  at  times. 
He  was  vexed,  and  said,  "  She  was  never  that  way 
afore  ;  no,  never."  For  a  time  she  knew  her  head 
was  wrong,  and  was  always  asking  our  pardon  —  the 
dear,  gentle  old  woman  :  then  delirium  set  in  strong, 


RAB   AND   HIS   FRIENDS.  35 

without  pause.  Her  brain  gave  way,  and  then  came 
that  terrible  spectacle,  — 

' '  The  intellectual  power,  through  words  and  things, 
Went  sounding  on  its  dim  and  perilous  way," 

she  sang  bits  of  old  songs  and  Psalms,  stopping  sud- 
denly, mingling  the  Psalms  of  David  and  the  diviner 
words  of  his  Son  and  Lord,  with  homely  odds  and 
ends  and  scraps  of  ballads. 

Nothing  more  touching,  or  in  a  sense  more 
strangely  beautiful,  did  I  ever  witness.  Her  tremu- 
lous, rapid,  affectionate,  eager,  Scotch  voice,  —  the 
swift,  aimless,  bewildered  mind,  the  baffled  utter- 
ance, the  bright  and  perilous  eye ;  some  wild  words, 
some  household  cares,  something  for  James,  the 
names  of  the  dead,  Rab  called  rapidly  and  in  a 
"  fremyt "  voice,  and  he  starting  up  surprised,  and 
slinking  off  as  if  he  were  to  blame  somehow,  or  had 
been  dreaming  he  heard  ;  many  eager  questions  and 
beseechings  which  James  and  I  could  make  nothing 
of,  and  on  which  she  seemed  to  set  her  all,  and  then 
sink  back  ununderstood.  It  was  very  sad,  but  better 
than  many  things  that  are  not  called  sad.  James 
hovered  about,  put  out  and  miserable,  but  active  and 
exact  as  ever  ;  read  to  her  when  there  was  a  lull, 
short  bits  from  the  Psalms,  prose  and  metre,  chant- 
ing the  latter  in  his  own  rude  and  serious  way,  show- 
ing great  knowledge  of  the  fit  words,  bearing  up  like 
a  man,  and  doating  over  her  as  his  "  ain  Ailie." 
"  Ailie,  ma  woman !  "  "  Ma  ain  bonnie  wee  clawtie  !  " 

The  end  was  drawing  on  :   the  golden  bowl  was 


36  RAB    AND   HIS   FRIENDS. 

breaking ;  the  silver  cord  was  fast  being  loosed  — 
that  animula  blandula,  vagula,  hospes,  comesque,  was 
about  to  flee.  The  body  and  the  soul  —  companions 
for  sixty  years  —  were  being  sundered,  and  taking 
leave.  She  was  walking  alone,  through  the  valley  of 
that  shadow,  into  which  one  day  we  must  all  enter, 
—  and  yet  she  was  not  alone,  for  we  know  whose 
rod  and  staff  were  comforting  her. 

One  night  she  had  fallen  quiet,  and  as  we  hoped, 
asleep  ;  her  eyes  were  shut.  We  put  down  the  gas, 
and  sat  watching  her.  Suddenly  she  sat  up  in  bed, 
and  taking  a  bed-gown  which  was  lying  on  it  rolled 
up,  she  held  it  eagerly  to  her  breast,  —  to  the  right 
side.  We  could  see  her  eyes  bright  with  a  surpris- 
ing tenderness  and  joy,  bending  over  this  bundle  of 
clothes.  She  held  it  as  a  woman  holds  her  sucking 
child ;  opening  out  her  night-gown  impatiently,  and 
holding  it  close,  and  brooding  over  it,  and  murmur- 
ing foolish  little  words,  as  over  one  whom  his  mother 
comforteth,  and  who  sucks  and  is  satisfied.  It  was 
pitiful  and  strange  to  see  her  wasted  dying  look, 
keen  and  yet  vague  —  her  immense  love. 

"  Preserve  me !  "  groaned  James,  giving  way. 
And  then  she  rocked  back  and  forward,  as  if  to 
make  it  sleep,  hushing  it,  and  Avasting  on  it  her  in- 
finite fondness.  "  Wae  's  me,  doctor ;  I  declare  she  's 
thinkin'  it's  that  bairn."  "  What  bairn  ?"  "The 
only  bairn  we  ever  had ;  our  wee  Mysie,  and  she  's 
in  the  Kingdom,  forty  years  and  mair."  It  was 
plainly  true  :  the  pain  in  the  breast,  telling  its  urgent 


RAB   AND   HIS   FRIENDS.  37 

story  to  a  bewildered,  ruined  brain,  was  misread  and 
mistaken ;  it  suggested  to  her  the  uneasiness  of  a 
breast  full  of  milk,  and  then  the  child ;  and  so  again 
once  more  they  were  together,  and  she  had  her  ain 
wee  Mysie  in  her  bosom. 

This  was  the  close.  She  sank  rapidly  :  the  delir- 
ium left  her  ;  but,  as  she  whispered,  she  was  "  clean 
silly  ;  "  it  was  the  lightening  before  the  final  darkness. 
After  having  for  some  time  lain  still  —  her  eyes  shut, 
she  said  "  James  !  "  He  came  close  to  her,  and  lift- 
ing up  her  calm,  clear,  beautiful  eyes,  she  gave  him  a 
long  look,  turned  to  me  kindly  but  shortly,  looked  for 
Rab  but  could  not  see  him,  then  turned  to  her  hus- 
band again,  as  if  she  would  never  leave  off  looking, 
shut  her  eyes,  and  composed  herself.  She  lay  for 
some  time  breathing  quick,  and  passed  away  so 
gently,  that  when  we  thought  she  was  gone,  James, 
in  his  old-fashioned  way,  held  the  mirror  to  her  face. 
After  a  long  pause,  one  small  spot  of  dimness  was 
breathed  out ;  it  vanished  away,  and  never  returned, 
leaving  the  blank  clear  darkness  of  the  mirror  with- 
out a  stain.  "  What  is  our  life  ?  it  is  even  a  vapor, 
which  appeareth  for  a  little  time,  and  then  vanisheth 
away." 

Rab  all  this  time  had  been  full  awake  and  motion- 
less ;  he  came  forward  beside  us :  Ailie's  hand, 
which  James  had  held,  was  hanging  down ;  it  was 
soaked  with  his  tears ;  Rab  licked  it  all  over  care- 
fully, looked  at  her,  and  returned  to  his  place  under 
the  table. 


38  RAB   AND   HIS  FRIENDS. 

James  and  I  sat,  I  don't  know  how  long,  but  for 
some  time,  —  saying  nothing :  he  started  up  abruptly, 
and  with  some  noise  went  to  the  table,  and  putting 
his  right  fore  and  middle  fingers  each  into  a  shoe, 
pulled  them  out,  and  put  them  on,  breaking  one  of 
the  leather  latchets,  and  muttering  in  anger,  "  I  never 
did  the  like  o'  that  afore  !  " 

I  believe  he  never  did  ;  nor  after  either.  "  Rab !  " 
he  said  roughly,  and  pointing  with  his  thumb  to  the 
bottom  of  the  bed.  Rab  leapt  up,  and  settled  him- 
self ;  his  head  and  eye  to  the  dead  face.  "  Maister 
John,  ye  '11  wait  for  me,"  said  the  carrier  ;  and  disap- 
peared in  the  darkness,  thundering  down-stairs  in 
his  heavy  shoes.  I  ran  to  a  front  window ;  there 
he  was,  already  round  the  house,  and  out  at  the  gate, 
fleeing  like  a  shadow. 

I  was  afraid  about  him,  and  yet  not  afraid  ;  so  I 
sat  down  beside  Rab,  and  being  wearied,  fell  asleep. 
I  awoke  from  a  sudden  noise  outside.  It  was  No- 
vember, and  there  had  been  a  heavy  fall  of  snow. 
Rab  was  in  statu  quo  ;  he  heard  the  noise  too,  and 
plainly  knew  it,  but  never  moved.  I  looked  out ; 
and  there,  at  the  gate,  in  the  dim  morning  —  for  the 
sun  was  not  up  —  was  Jess  and  the  cart,  —  a  cloud 
of  steam  rising  from  the  old  mare.  I  did  not  see 
James ;  he  was  already  at  the  door,  and  came  up  the 
stairs,  and  met  me.  It  was  less  than  three  hours 
since  he  left,  and  he  must  have  posted  out  —  who 
knows  how  ?  —  to  Howgate,  full  nine  miles  off ; 
yoked  Jess,  and  driven  her  astonished  into  town.  He 


RAB   AND  HIS   FRIENDS.  39 

had  an  armful  of  blankets,  and  was  streaming  with 
perspiration.  He  nodded  to  me,  spread  out  on  the 
floor  two  pairs  of  clean  old  blankets  having  at  their 
corners,  "  A.  G.,  1794,"  in  large  letters  in  red  worsted. 
These  were  the  initials  of  Alison  Graeme,  and  James 
may  have  looked  in  at  her  from  without  —  himself 
unseen  but  not  unthought  of  —  when  he  was  "  wat, 
wat,  and  weary,"  and  after  having  walked  many  a 
mile  over  the  hills,  may  have  seen  her  sitting,  while 
"  a'  the  lave  were  sleepin' ;  "  and  by  the  firelight 
working  her  name  on  the  blankets,  for  her  ain 
James's  bed. 

He  motioned  Rab  down,  and  taking  his  wife  in 
his  arms,  laid  her  in  the  blankets,  and  happed  her 
carefully  and  firmly  up,  leaving  the  face  uncovered  ; 
and  then  lifting  her,  he  nodded  again  sharply  to  me, 
and  with  a  resolved  but  utterly  miserable  face,  strode 
along  the  passage,  and  down-stairs,  followed  by  Rab. 
I  followed  with  a  light ;  but  he  did  n't  need  it.  I 
went  out,  holding  stupidly  the  candle  in  my  hand  in 
the  calm  frosty  air;  we  were  soon  at  the  gate.  I 
could  have  helped  him,  but  I  saw  he  was  not  to  be 
meddled  with,  and  he  was  strong,  and  did  not  need 
it.  He  laid  her  down  as  tenderly,  as  safely,  as  he 
had  lifted  her  out  ten  days  before  —  as  tenderly  as 
when  he  had  her  first  in  his  arms  when  she  was  only 
"  A.  G.,"  —  sorted  her,  leaving  that  beautiful  sealed 
face  open  to  the  heavens  ;  and  then  taking  Jess  by 
the  head,  he  moved  away.  He  did  not  notice  me, 
neither  did  Rab,  who  presided  behind  the  cart. 


40  RAB    AND   HIS   FRIENDS. 

I  stood  till  they  passed  through  the  long  shadow 
of  the  College,  and  turned  up  Nicolson  Street.  I 
heard  the  solitary  cart  sound  through  the  streets, 
and  die  away  and  come  again ;  and  I  returned, 
thinking  of  that  company  going  up  Libberton  Brae, 
then  along  Roslin  Muir,  the  morning  light  touching 
the  Pentlands  and  making  them  like  on-looking 
ghosts,  then  down  the  hill  through  Auchindinny 
woods,  past  "  haunted  Woodhouselee  ;  "  and  as  day- 
break came  sweeping  up  the  bleak  Lainmermuirs, 
and  fell  on  his  own  door,  the  company  would  stop, 
and  James  would  take  the  key,  and  lift  Ailie  up 
again,  laying  her  on  her  own  bed,  and,  having  put 
Jess  up,  would  return  with  Rab  and  shut  the  door. 

James  buried  his  wife,  with  his  neighbors  mourn- 
ing, Rab  inspecting  the  solemnity  from  a  distance. 
It  was  snow,  and  that  black  ragged  hole  would  look 
strange  in  the  midst  of  the  swelling  spotless  cush- 
ion of  white.  James  looked  after  everything  ;  then 
rather  suddenly  fell  ill,  and  took  to  bed ;  was  insen- 
sible when  the  doctor  came,  and  soon  died.  A  sort 
of  low  fever  was  prevailing  in  the  village,  and  his 
want  of  sleep,  his  exhaustion,  and  his  misery,  made 
him  apt  to  take  it.  The  grave  was  not  difficult  to 
reopen.  A  fresh  fall  of  snow  had  again  made  all 
things  white  and  smooth  ;  Rab  once  more  looked  on, 
and  slunk  home  to  the  stable. 

And  what  of  Rab  ?  I  asked  for  him  next  week 
of  the  new  carrier  who  got  the  goodwill  of  James's 


RAB    AND   HIS   FRIENDS.  41 

business,  and  was  now  master  of  Jess  and  her  cart. 
"  How  's  Rab  ?  "  He  put  me  off,  and  said  rather 
rudely,  "  What 's  your  business  wi'  the  dowg  ?  "  I 
was  not  to  be  so  put  off.  "  Where  's  Rab  ?  "  He, 
getting-  confused  and  red,  and  intermeddling  with 
his  hair,  said,  "  'Deed,  sir,  Rab  's  deid."  "  Dead ! 
what  did  he  die  of  ?  "  "  Weel,  sir,"  said  he,  getting 
redder,  "  he  did  na  exactly  dee ;  he  was  killed.  I 
had  to  brain  him  wi'  a  rack-pin  ;  there  was  nae  doin' 
wi'  him.  He  lay  in  the  treviss  wi'  the  mear,  and 
wad  na  come  oot.  I  tempit  him  wi'  kail  and  meat, 
but  he  wad  tak  naething,  and  keepit  me  frae  feedin' 
the  beast,  and  he  was  aye  gur  gurrin,'  and  grup 
gruppin'  me  by  the  legs.  I  was  laith  to  make  awa 
wi'  the  auld  dowg,  his  like  was  na  atween  this  and 
Thornhill,  —  but,  'deed,  sir,  I  could  do  naething 
else."  I  believed  him.  Fit  end  for  Rab,  quick  and 
complete.  His  teeth  and  his  friends  gone,  why 
should  he  keep  the  peace,  and  be  civil  ? 


OUK   DOGS. 

I  WAS  bitten  severely  by  a  little  dog  when  with  my 
mother  at  Moffat  Wells,  being  then  three  years  of 
age,  and  I  have  remained  "  bitten  "  ever  since  in  the 
matter  of  dogs.  I  remember  that  little  dog,  and  can 
at  this  moment  not  only  recall  my  pain  and  terror  — 
I  have  no  doubt  I  was  to  blame  —  but  also  her  face  ; 
and  were  I  allowed  to  search  among  the  shades  in  the 
cynic  Elysian  fields,  I  could  pick  her  out  still.  All 
my  life  I  have  been  familiar  with  these  faithful  crea- 
tures, making  friends  of  them,  and  speaking  to  them  ; 
and  the  only  time  I  ever  addressed  the  public,  about 
a  year  after  being  bitten,  was  at  the  farm  of  Kirklaw 
Hill,  near  Biggar,  when  the  text,  given  out  from  an 
empty  cart  in  which  the  ploughmen  had  placed  me, 
was  "  Jacob's  dog,"  and  my  entire  sermon  was  as  fol- 
lows :  —  "  Some  say  that  Jacob  had  a  black  dog  (the 
o  very  long),  and  some  say  that  Jacob  had  a  white 
dog,  but  /  (imagine  the  presumption  of  four  years !) 
say  Jacob  had  a  brown  dog,  and  a  brown  dog  it  shall 
be." 

I  had  many  intimacies  from  this  time  onwards  — 
Bawtie,  of  the  inn ;  Keeper,  the  carrier's  bull  terrier  ; 
Tiger,  a  huge  tawny  mastiff  from  Edinburgh,  which 


OUR   DOGS.  43 

I  think  must  have  been  an  uncle  of  Rab's ;  all  the 
sheep  dogs  at  Callands  —  Spring,  Mavis,  Yarrow, 
Swallow,  Cheviot,  etc. ;  but  it  was  not  till  I  was  at 
college,  and  my  brother  at  the  High  School,  that  we 
possessed  a  dog. 

TOBY 

Was  the  most  utterly  shabby,  vulgar,  mean-looking 
cur  I  ever  beheld :  in  one  word,  a  tyke.  He  had  not 
one  good  feature  except  his  teeth  and  eyes,  and  his 
bark,  if  that  can  be  called  a  feature.  He  was  not 
ugly  enough  to  be  interesting ;  his  color  black  and 
white,  his  shape  leggy  and  clumsy ;  altogether  what 
Sydney  Smith  would  have  called  an  extraordinarily 
ordinary  dog ;  and,  as  I  have  said,  not  even  greatly 
ugly,  or,  as  the  Aberdonians  have  it,  bonnie  wi'  ill- 
fauredness.  My  brother  William  found  him  the 
centre  of  attraction  to  a  multitude  of  small  black- 
guards who  were  drowning  him  slowly  in  Lochend 
Loch,  doing  their  best  to  lengthen  out  the  process,  and 
secure  the  greatest  amount  of  fun  with  the  nearest  ap- 
proach to  death.  Even  then  Toby  showed  his  great 
intellect  by  pretending  to  be  dead,  and  thus  gaining 
time  and  an  inspiration.  William  bought  him  for 
twopence,  and  as  he  had  it  not,  the  boys  accompanied 
him  to  Pilrig  Street,  when  I  happened  to  meet  him, 
and  giving  the  twopence  to  the  biggest  boy,  had  the 
satisfaction  of  seeing  a  general  engagement  of  much 
severity,  during  which  the  twopence  disappeared ; 
one  penny  going  off  with  a  very  small  and  swift  boy, 


44  OUR   DOGS. 

and  the  other  vanishing  hopelessly  into  the  grating  of 
a  drain. 

Toby  was  for  weeks  in  the  house  unbeknown  to 
any  one  but  ourselves  two  and  the  cook,  and  from  my 
grandmother's  love  of  tidiness  and  hatred  of  dogs 
and  of  dirt  I  believe  she  would  have  expelled  u  him 
whom  we  saved  from  drowning,"  had  not  he,  in  his 
straightforward  way,  walked  into  my  father's  bedroom 
one  night  when  he  was  bathing  his  feet,  and  intro- 
duced himself  with  a  wag  of  his  tail,  intimating  a 
general  willingness  to  be  happy.  My  father  laughed 
most  heartily,  and  at  last  Toby,  having  got  his  way 
to  his  bare  feet,  and  having  begun  to  lick  his  soles 
and  between  his  toes  with  his  small  rough  tongue, 
my  father  gave  such  an  unwonted  shout  of  laughter 
that  we  —  grandmother,  sisters,  and  all  of  us  —  went 
in.  Grandmother  might  argue  with  all  her  energy 
and  skill,  but  as  surely  as  the  pressure  of  Tom  Jones' 
infantile  fist  upon  Mr.  Allworthy's  forefinger  undid 
all  the  arguments  of  his  sister,  so  did  Toby's  tongue 
and  fun  prove  too  many  for  grandmother's  eloquence. 
I  somehow  think  Toby  must  have  been  up  to  all  this, 
for  I  think  he  had  a  peculiar  love  for  my  father  ever 
after,  and  regarded  grandmother  from  that  hour  with 
a  careful  and  cool  eye. 

Toby,  when  full  grown,  was  a  strong,  coarse  dog  ; 
coarse  in  shape,  in  countenance,  in  hair,  and  in  man- 
ner. I  used  to  think  that,  according  to  the  Pythago- 
rean doctrine,  he  must  have  been,  or  been  going  to  be 
a  Gilmerton  carter.  He  was  of  the  bull  terrier  variety, 


OUR   DOGS.  45 

coarsened  through  much  mongrelism  and  a  dubious 
and  varied  ancestry.  His  teeth  were  good,  and  he 
had  a  large  skull,  and  a  1'ich  bark  as  of  a  dog  three 
times  his  size,  and  a  tail  which  I  never  saw  equaled 
—  indeed  it  was  a  tail  per  se ;  it  was  of  immense 
girth  and  not  short,  equal  throughout  like  a  police- 
man's baton ;  the  machinery  for  working  it  was  of 
great  power,  and  acted  in  a  way,  as  far  as  I  have 
been  able  to  discover,  quite  original.  We  called  it 
his  ruler. 

When  he  wished  to  get  into  the  house,  he  first 
whined  gently,  then  growled,  then  gave  a  sharp  bark, 
and  then  came  a  resounding,  mighty  stroke  which 
shook  the  house ;  this,  after  much  study  and  watching, 
we  found  was  done  by  his  bringing  the  entire  length 
of  his  solid  tail  flat  upon  the  door,  with  a  sudden  and 
vigorous  stroke ;  it  was  quite  a  tour  de  force  or  a 
coup  de  queue,  and  he  was  perfect  in  it  at  once,  his 
first  bang  authoritative,  having  been  as  masterly  and 
telling  as  his  last. 

With  all  this  inbred  vulgar  air,  he  was  a  dog  of 
great  moral  excellence  —  affectionate,  faithful,  honest 
up  to  his  light,  with  an  odd  humor  as  peculiar  and  as 
strong  as  his  tail.  My  father,  in  his  reserved  way, 
was  very  fond  of  him,  and  there  must  have  been  very 
funny  scenes  with  them,  for  we  heard  bursts  of  laugh- 
ter issuing  from  his  study  when  they  two  were  by  them- 
selves ;  there  was  something  in  him  that  took  that 
grave,  beautiful,  melancholy  face.  One  can  fancy 
him  in  the  midst  of  his  books,  and  sacred  work  and 


46  OUR   DOGS. 

thoughts,  pausing  and  looking  at  the  secular  Toby, 
who  was  looking  out  for  a  smile  to  begin  his  rough 
fun,  and  about  to  end  by  coursing  and  gurrirC  round 
the  room,  upsetting  my  father's  books,  laid  out  on  the 
floor  for  consultation,  and  himself  nearly  at  times,  as 
he  stood  watching  him  —  and  off  his  guard  and  shak- 
ing with  laughter.  Toby  had  always  a  great  desire 
to  accompany  my  father  up  to  town  ;  this  my  father's 
good  taste  and  sense  of  dignity,  besides  his  fear  of 
losing  his  friend  (a  vain  fear!),  forbade,  and  as  the 
decision  of  character  of  each  was  great  and  nearly 
equal,  it  was  often  a  drawn  game.  Toby  ultimately, 
by  making  it  his  entire  object,  triumphed.  He  usu- 
ally was  nowhere  to  be  seen  on  my  father  leaving ; 
he  however  saw  him,  and  lay  in  wait  at  the  head  of 
the  street,  and  up  Leith  Walk  he  kept  him  in  view 
from  the  opposite  side  like  a  detective,  and  then, 
when  he  knew  it  was  hopeless  to  hound  him  home,  he 
crossed  unblushingly  over,  and  joined  company,  ex- 
cessively rejoiced  of  course. 

One  Sunday  he  had  gone  with  him  to  church,  and 
left  him  at  the  vestry  door.  The  second  psalm  was 
given  out,  and  my  father  was  sitting  back  in  the 
pulpit,  when  the  door  at  its  back,  up  which  he  came 
from  the  vestry  was  seen  to  move,  and  gently  open, 
then,  after  a  long  pause,  a  black  shining  snout  pushed 
its  way  steadily  into  the  congregation,  and  was  fol- 
lowed by  Toby's  entire  body.  He  looked  somewhat 
abashed,  but  snuffing  his  friend,  he  advanced  as  if 
on  thin  ice,  and  not  seeing  him,  put  his  forelegs  on 


OUR   DOGS.  47 

the  pulpit,  and  behold  there  he  was,  his  own  familiar 
chum.  I  watched  all  this,  and  anything  more  beau- 
tiful than  his  look  of  happiness,  of  comfort,  of  entire 
ease  when  he  beheld  his  friend,  —  the  smoothing 
down  of  the  anxious  ears,  the  swing  of  gladness  of 
that  mighty  tail,  —  I  don't  expect  soon  to  see.  My 
father  quietly  opened  the  door,  and  Toby  was  at  his 
feet  and  invisible  to  all  but  himself ;  had  he  sent  old 
George  Peaston,  the  "  minister's  man,"  to  put  him 
out,  Toby  would  probably  have  shown  his  teeth,  and 
astonished  George.  He  slunk  home  as  soon  as  he 
could,  and  never  repeated  that  exploit. 

I  never  saw  in  any  other  dog  the  sudden  transi- 
tion from  discretion,  not  to  say  abject  cowardice, 
to  blazing  and  permanent  valor.  From  his  earliest 
years  he  showed  a  general  meanness  of  blood,  in- 
herited from  many  generations  of  starved,  bekicked, 
and  down-trodden  forefathers  and  mothers,  resulting 
in  a  condition  of  intense  abjectness  in  all  matters  of 
personal  fear ;  anybody,  even  a  beggar,  by  a  gowl 
and  a  threat  of  eye,  'could  send  him  off  howling  by 
anticipation,  with  that  mighty  tail  between  his  legs. 
But  it  was  not  always  so  to  be,  and  I  had  the  privilege 
of  seeing  courage,  reasonable,  absolute,  and  for  life, 
spring  up  in  Toby  at  once,  as  did  Athene  from  the 
skull  of  Jove.  It  happened  thus  :  — 

Toby  was  in  the  way  of  hiding  his  culinary  bones 
in  the  small  gardens  before  his  own  and  the  neighbor- 
ing doors.  Mr.  Scrymgeour,  two  doors  off,  a  bulky, 
choleric,  red-haired,  red-faced  man  —  torvo  vultu  — 


48  OUR  DOGS. 

was,  by  the  law  of  contrast,  a  great  cultivator  of 
flowers,  and  he  had  often  scowled  Toby  into  all  but 
nonexistence  by  a  stamp  of  his  foot  and  a  glare  of 
his  eye.  One  day  his  gate  being  open,  in  walks  Toby 
with  a  huge  bone,  and  making  a  hole  where  Scrymgeour 
had  two  minutes  before  been  planting  some  precious 
slip,  the  name  of  which  on  paper  and  on  a  stick  Toby 
made  very  light  of,  substituted  his  bone,  and  was 
engaged  covering  it,  or  thinking  he  was  covering  it 
up  with  his  shoveling  nose  (a  very  odd  relic  of  para- 
dise in  the  dog),  when  S.  spied  him  through  the 
inner  glass  door,  and  was  out  upon  him  like  the 
Assyrian,  with  a  terrible  (jowl.  I  watched  them. 
Instantly  Toby  made  straight  at  him  with  a  roar  too, 
and  an  eye  more  torve  than  Scrymgeour's,  who,  re- 
treating without  reserve,  fell  prostrate,  there  is  rea- 
son to  believe,  in  his  own  lobby.  Toby  contented 
himself  with  proclaiming  his  victory  at  the  door,  and 
returning  finished  his  bone-planting  at  his  leisure ;  the 
enemy,  who  had  scuttled  behind  the  glass-door,  glaring 
at  him. 

From  this  moment  Toby  was  an  altered  dog.  Pluck 
at  first  sight  was  lord  of  all ;  from  that  time  dated 
his  first  tremendous  deliverance  of  tail  against  the 
door  which  we  called  "  come  listen  to  my  tail."  That 
very  evening  he  paid  a  visit  to  Leo,  next  door's  dog, 
a  big,  tyrannical  bully  and  coward,  which  its  mas- 
ter thought  a  Newfoundland,  but  whose  pedigree  we 
knew  better ;  this  brute  continued  the  same  system 
of  chronic  extermination  which  was  interrupted  at 


OUR  DOGS.  49 

Lochend,  —  having  Toby  down  among  his  feet,  and 
threatening  him  with  instant  death  two  or  three  times 
a  day.  To  him  Toby  paid  a  visit  that  very  evening, 
down  into  his  den,  and  walked  about,  as  much  as  to 
say  "  Come  on,  Macduff ! "  but  Macduff  did  not 
come  on,  and  henceforward  there  was  an  armed 
neutrality,  and  they  merely  stiffened  up  and  made 
their  backs  rigid,  pretended  each  not  to  see  the  other, 
walking  solemnly  round,  as  is  the  manner  of  dogs. 
Toby  worked  his  new-found  faculty  thoroughly,  but 
with  discretion.  He  killed  cats,  astonished  beggars, 
kept  his  own  in  his  own  garden  against  all  comers, 
and  came  off  victorious  in  several  well-fought  battles ; 
but  he  was  not  quarrelsome  or  foolhardy.  It  was 
very  odd  how  his  carriage  changed,  holding  his  head 
up,  and  how  much  pleasanter  he  was  at  home.  To 
my  father,  next  to  William,  who  was  his  Humane 
Society  man,  he  remained  stanch.  And  what  of  his 
end  ?  for  the  misery  of  dogs  is  that  they  die  so  soon, 
or  as  Sir  Walter  says,  it  is  well  they  do ;  for  if  they 
lived  as  long  as  a  Christian,  and  we  liked  them  in 
proportion,  and  they  then  died,  he  said  that  was  a 
thing  he  could  not  stand. 

His  exit  was  miserable,  and  had  a  strange  poetic 
or  tragic  relation  to  his  entrance.  My  father  was 
out  of  town ;  I  was  away  in  England.  Whether  it 
was  that  the  absence  of  my  father  had  relaxed  his 
power  of  moral  restraint,  or  whether  through  neglect 
of  the  servant  he  had  been  desperately  hungry,  or 
most  likely  both  being  true,  Toby  was  discovered 


50  OUR   DOGS. 

with  the  remains  of  a  cold  leg  of  mutton,  on  which 
he  had  made  an  ample  meal ; l  this  he  was  in  vain  en- 
deavoring to  plant  as  of  old,  in  the  hope  of  its  remain- 
ing undiscovered  till  to-morrow's  hunger  returned, 
the  whole  shank  hone  sticking  up  unmistakahly. 
This  was  seen  hy  our  excellent  and  Rhadamanthine 
grandmother,  who  pronounced  sentence  on  the  instant ; 
and  next  day,  as  William  was  leaving  for  the  High 
School,  did  he  in  the  sour  morning,  through  an  east- 
erly haur,  behold  him  "  whom  he  saved  from  drown- 
ing," and  whom,  with  hetter  results  than  in  the  case 
of  Launce  and  Crah,  he  had  taught,  as  if  one  should 
say,  "  thus  would  I  teach  a  dog,"  dangling  by  his 
own  chain  from  his  own  lamp-post,  one  of  his  hind 
feet  just  touching  the  pavement,  and  his  body  pre- 
ternaturally  elongated. 

William  found  him  dead  and  warm,  and  falling  in 
with  the  milk-boy  at  the  head  of  the  street,  questioned 
him,  and  discovered  that  he  was  the  executioner,  and 
had  got  twopence,  he  —  Toby's  every  morning  crony, 
who  met  him  and  accompanied  him  up  the  street,  and 
licked  the  outside  of  his  can  —  had,  with  an  eye  to 
speed  and  convenience,  and  a  want  of  taste,  not  to 
say  principle  and  affection,  horrible  still  to  think  of, 
suspended  Toby's  animation  beyond  all  hope.  William 
instantly  fell  upon  him,  upsetting  his  milk  and  cream, 

1  Toby  -was  in  the  state  of  the  shepherd  boy  whom  George 
Webster  met  in  Glenshee,  and  asked,  "My  man,  were  you 
ever  fou'  ?  "  "  Ay,  aince,"  speaking  slowly,  as  if  remembering 
—  "  Ay,  aince.' '  "  What  on  ?  "  "  Cauld  mutton !  ' ' 


OUR   DOGS.  51 

and  gave  him  a  thorough  licking,  to  his  own  intense 
relief ;  and,  being  late,  he  got  from  Pyper,  who  was 
a  martinet,  the  customary  palmies,  which  he  bore 
with  something  approaching  to  pleasure.  So  died 
Toby  ;  my  father  said  little,  but  he  missed  and 
mourned  his  friend. 

There  is  reason  to  believe  that  by  one  of  those  curi- 
ous intertwistings  of  existence,  the  milk-boy  was  that 
one  of  the  drowning  party  who  got  the  penny  of  the 
twopence. 

WYLIE. 

Our  next  friend  was  an  exquisite  shepherd's  dog ; 
fleet,  thin-flanked,  dainty,  and  handsome  as  a  small 
grayhound,  with  all  the  grace  of  silky  waving  black 
and  tan  hair.  We  got  him  thus.  Being  then  young 
and  keen  botanists,  and  full  of  the  knowledge  and 
love  of  Tweedside,  having  been  on  every  hill-top  from 
Muckle  Mendic  to  Hundleshope  and  the  Lee  Pen,  and 
having  fished  every  water  from  Tarth  to  the  Leithen, 
we  discovered  early  in  spring  that  young  Stewart, 
author  of  an  excellent  book  on  natural  history,  a 
young  man  of  great  promise  and  early  death,  had 
found  the  Buxba^lm^a  aphylla,  a  beautiful  and  odd- 
looking  moss,  west  of  Newbie  heights,  in  the  very 
month  we  were  that  moment  in.  We  resolved  to  start 
next  day.  We  walked  to  Peebles,  and  then  up  Hay- 
stoun  Glen  to  the  cottage  of  Adam  Cairns,  the  aged 
shepherd  of  the  Newbie  hirsel,  of  whom  we  knew, 


52  OUR   DOGS. 

and  who  knew  of  us  from  his  daughter,  Nancy  Cairns, 
a  servant  with  Uncle  Aitken  of  Callands.  We  found 
our  way  up  the  burn  with  difficulty,  as  the  evening 
was  getting  dark ;  and  on  getting  near  the  cottage 
heard  them  at  worship.  We  got  in,  and  made  our- 
selves known,  and  got  a  famous  tea,  and  such  cream 
and  oat  cake!  —  old  Adam  looking  on  us  as  "clean 
dementit "  to  come  out  for  "  a  bit  moss,"  which,  how- 
ever, he  knew,  and  with  some  pride  said  he  would 
take  us  in  the  morning  to  the  place.  As  we  were  go- 
ing into  a  box  bed  for  the  night,  two  young  men  came 
in,  and  said  they  were  "  gaun  to  burn  the  water." 
Off  we  set.  It  was  a  clear,  dark,  starlight,  frosty 
night.  They  had  their  leisters  and  tar  torches,  and 
it  was  something  worth  seeing  —  the  wild  flame,  the 
young  fellows  striking  the  fish  coining  to  the  light 
—  how  splendid  they  looked  with  the  light  on  their 
scales,  coming  out  of  the  darkness  —  the  stumblings 
and  quenchings  suddenly  of  the  lights,  as  the  torch- 
bearer  fell  into  a  deep  pool.  We  got  home  past  mid- 
night, and  slept  as  we  seldom  sleep  now.  In  the 
morning  Adam,  who  had  been  long  up.  and  had  been 
up  the  "  Hope "  with  his  dog,  when  he  saw  we  bad 
wakened,  told  us  there  was  four  inches  of  snow,  and 
we  soon  saw  it  was  too  true.  So  we  had  to  go  home 
without  our  cryptogamic  prize. 

It  turned  out  that  Adam,  who  was  an  old  man  and 
frail,  and  had  made  some  money,  was  going  at  Whit- 
sunday to  leave,  and  live  with  his  son  in  Glasgow. 
We  had  been  admiring  the  beauty  and  gentleness  and 


OUR   DOGS.  53 

perfect  shape  of  Wylie,  the  finest  colley  I  ever  saw, 
and  said,  "  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  Wylie  ?  " 
"  'Deed,"  says  he,  "  I  hardly  ken.  I  can  na  think  o' 
sellin'  her,  though  she 's  worth  four  pound,  and  she  '11 
no  like  the  toun."  I  said,  "  Would  you  let  me  have 
her  ?  "  and  Adam,  looking  at  her  fondly,  —  she  came 
up  instantly  to  him,  and  made  of  him,  —  said,  "  Ay,  I 
wull,  if  ye  '11  be  gude  to  her  ;  "  and  it  was  settled  that 
when  Adam  left  for  Glasgow  she  should  be  sent  into 
Albany  Street  by  the  carrier. 

She  came,  and  was  at  once  taken  to  all  our  hearts, 
even  grandmother  liked  her  ;  and  though  she  was  often 
pensive,  as  if  thinking  of  her  master  and  her  work  on 
the  hills,  she  made  herself  at  home,  and  behaved  in 
all  respects  like  a  lady.  When  out  with  me,  if  she 
saw  sheep  in  the  streets  or  road,  she  got  quite  excited, 
and  helped  the  work,  and  was  curiously  useful,  the 
being  so  making  her  wonderfully  happy.  And  so  her 
little  life  went  on,  never  doing  wrong,  always  blithe 
and  kind  and  beautiful.  But  some  months  after  she 
came,  there  was  a  mystery  about  her  :  every  Tuesday 
evening  she  disappeared  ;  we  tried  to  watch  her,  but 
in  vain,  she  was  always  off  by  nine  p.  M.,  and  was 
away  all  night,  coming  back  next  day  wearied  and 
all  over  mud,  as  if  she  had  traveled  far.  She  slept 
all  next  day.  This  went  on  for  some  months  and  we 
could  make  nothing  of  it.  Poor  dear  creature,  she 
looked  at  us  wistfully  when  she  came  in,  as  if  she 
would  have  told  us  if  she  could,  and  was  especially 
fond,  though  tired. 


54  OUR   DOGS. 

Well,  one  day  I  was  walking  across  the  Grass- 
market,  with  Wylie  at  my  heels,  when  two  shepherds 
started,  and  looking  at  her,  one  said,  "  That 's  her  ; 
that 's  the  wonderfu'  wee  bitch  that  naebody  kens." 
I  asked  him  what  he  meant,  and  he  told  me  that  for 
months  past  she  had  made  her  appearance  by  the  first 
daylight  at  the  "  buchts  "  or  sheep-pens  in  the  cattle 
market,  and  worked  incessantly,  and  to  excellent  pur- 
pose in  helping  the  shepherds  to  get  their  sheep  and 
lambs  in.  The  man  said  with  a  sort  of  transport, 
"  She  's  a  perfect  meeracle  ;  flees  about  like  a  speerit, 
and  never  gangs  wrang ;  wears  but  never  grups,  and 
beats  a'  oor  dowgs.  She  's  a  perfect  meeracle,  and  as 
soople  as  a  maukin."  Then  he  related  how  they  all 
knew  her,  and  said,  "  There  's  that  wee  fell  yin  ;  we  '11 
get  them  in  noo."  They  tried  to  coax  her  to  stop  and 
be  caught,  but  no,  she  was  gentle,  but  off ;  and  for 
many  a  day  that  "  wee  fell  yin  "  was  spoken  of  by  these 
rough  fellows.  She  continued  this  amateur  work  till 
she  died,  which  she  did  in  peace. 

It  is  very  touching  the  regard  the  south  -  country 
shepherds  have  to  their  dogs.  Professor  Syme  one 
day,  many  years  ago,  when  living  in  Forres  Street, 
was  looking  out  of  his  window,  and  he  saw  a  young 
shepherd  striding  down  North  Charlotte  Street,  as  if 
making  for  his  house  ;  it  was  midsummer.  The  man 
had  his  dog  with  him,  and  Mr.  Syme  noticed  that  he 
followed  the  dog,  and  not  it  him,  though  he  contrived 
to  steer  for  the  house.  He  came,  and  was  ushered 
into  his  room  ;  he  wished  advice  about  some  ailment, 


OUR   DOGS.  55 

and  Mr.  Syme  saw  that  he  had  a  bit  of  twine  round 
the  dog's  neck,  which  he  let  drop  out  of  his  hand 
when  he  entered  the  room.  He  asked  him  the  mean- 
ing of  this,  and  he  explained  that  the  magistrates  had 
issued  a  mad-dog  proclamation,  commanding  all  dogs 
to  be  muzzled  or  led  on  pain  of  death.  "  And  why  do 
you  go  about  as  I  saw  you  did  before  you  came  in  to 
me  ?  "  "  Oh,"  said  he,  looking  awkward,  "  I  did  na 
want  Birkie  to  ken  he  was  tied."  Where  will  you 
find  truer  courtesy  and  finer  feeling  ?  He  did  n't  want 
to  hurt  Birkie's  feelings. 

Mr.  Carruthers  of  Inverness  told  me  a  new  story 
of  these  wise  sheep  dogs.  A  butcher  from  Inverness 
had  purchased  some  sheep  at  Dingwall,  and  giving 
them  in  charge  to  his  dog,  left  the  road.  The  dog 
drove  them  on,  till  coming  to  a  toll,  the  toll -wife 
stood  before  the  drove,  demanding  her  dues.  The  dog 
looked  at  her,  and,  jumping  on  her  back,  crossed  his 
forelegs  over  her  arms.  The  sheep  passed  through, 
and  the  dog  took  his  place  behind  them,  and  went  on 
his  way. 

RAB. 

Of  Rab  I  have  little  to  say,  indeed  have  little  right 
to  speak  of  him  as  one  of  "  our  dogs  ; "  but  nobody 
will  be  sorry  to  hear  anything  of  that  noble  fellow. 
Ailie,  the  day  or  two  after  the  operation,  when  she 
was  well  and  cheery,  spoke  about  him,  and  said  she 
would  tell  me  fine  stories  when  I  came  out,  as  I  prom- 


56  OUR   DOGS. 

ised  to  do,  to  see  her  at  Howgate.  I  asked  her  how 
James  came  to  get  him.  She  told  me  that  one  day 
she  saw  James  coming  down  from  Leadburn  with  the 
cart ;  he  had  been  away  west,  getting  eggs  and  butter, 
cheese  and  hens  for  Edinburgh.  She  saw  he  was  in 
some  trouble,  and  on  looking,  there  was  what  she 
thought  a  young  calf  being  dragged,  or,  as  she  called 
it,  "  haurled,"  at  the  back  of  the  cart.  James  was 
in  front,  and  when  he  came  up,  very  warm  and  very 
angry,  she  saw  that  there  was  a  huge  young  dog  tied 
to  the  cart,  struggling  and  pulling  back  with  all  his 
might,  and  as  she  said  "lookin'  fearsom."  James, 
who  was  out  of  breath  and  temper,  being  past  his 
time,  explained  to  Ailie,  that  this  "  muckle  brute  o'  a 
whalp "  had  been  worrying  sheep,  and  terrifying 
everybody  up  at  Sir  George  Montgomery's  at  Macbie 
Hill,  and  that  Sir  George  had  ordered  him  to  be 
hanged,  which,  however,  was  sooner  said  than  done, 
as  "  the  thief  "  showed  his  intentions  of  dying  hard. 
James  came  up  just  as  Sir  George  had  sent  for  his 
gun,  and  as  the  dog  had  more  than  once  shown  a  lik- 
ing for  him,  he  said  he  "  wad  gie  him  a  chance ; " 
and  so  he  tied  him  to  his  cart.  Young  Rab,  fearing 
some  mischief,  had  been  entering  a  series  of  protests 
all  the  way,  and  nearly  strangling  himself  to  spite 
James  and  Jess,  besides  giving  Jess  more  than  usual 
to  do.  "  I  wish  I  had  let  Sir  George  pit  that  charge 
into  him,  the  thrawn  brute,"  said  James.  But  Ailie 
had  seen  that  in  his  foreleg  there  was  a  splinter  of 
wood,  which  he  had  likely  got  when  objecting  to  be 


OUR   DOGS.  57 

hanged,  and  that  he  was  miserably  lame.  So  she  got 
James  to  leave  him  with  her,  and  go  straight  into 
Edinburgh.  She  gave  him  water,  and  by  her  woman's 
wit  got  his  lame  paw  under  a  door,  so  that  he  could  n't 
suddenly  get  at  her,  then  with  a  quick  firm  hand  she 
plucked  out  the  splinter,  and  put  in  an  ample  meal. 
She  went  in  some  time  after,  taking  no  notice  of  him, 
and  he  came  limping  up,  and  laid  his  great  jaws  in  her 
lap ;  from  that  moment  they  were  "  chief,"  as  she 
said,  James  finding  him  mansuete  and  civil  when  he 
returned. 

She  said  it  was  Rab's  habit  to  make  his  appearance 
exactly  half  an  hour  before  his  master,  trotting  in  full 
of  importance,  as  if  to  say,  "  He  's  all  right,  he  '11  be 
here."  One  morning  James  came  without  him.  He 
had  left  Edinburgh  very  early,  and  in  coming  near 
Auchindinny,  at  a  lonely  part  of  the  road,  a  man 
sprang  out  on  him,  and  demanded  his  money.  James, 
who  was  a  cool  hand,  said,  "  Weel  a  weel,  let  me  get 
it,"  and  stepping  back,  he  said  to  Rab,  "  Speak  till  him, 
my  man."  In  an  instant  Rab  was  standing  over  him, 
threatening  strangulation  if  he  stirred.  James  pushed 
on,  leaving  Rab  in  charge ;  he  looked  back,  and  saw 
that  every  attempt  to  rise  was  summarily  put  down. 
As  he  was  telling  Ailie  the  story,  up  came  Rab  with 
that  great  swing  of  his.  It  turned  out  that  the  robber 
was  a  Howgate  lad,  the  worthless  son  of  a  neighbor, 
and  Rab  knowing  him  had  let  him  cheaply  off ;  the 
only  thing,  which  was  seen  by  a  man  from  a  field,  was, 
that  before  letting  him  rise,  he  quenched  (pro  tern- 


58  OUR   DOGS. 

pore)  the  fire  of  the  eyes  of  the  ruffian,  by  a  familiar 
Gulliverian  application  of  Hydraulics,  which  I  need 
not  further  particularize.  James,  who  did  not  know 
the  way  to  tell  an  untruth,  or  embellish  anything,  told 
me  this  as  what  he  called  "  a  fact  positeevdy" 


WASP 

Was  a  dark  brindled  bull  terrier,  as  pure  in  blood  as 
Cruiser  or  Wild  Dayrell.  She  was  brought  by  my 
brother  from  Otley,  in  the  West  Riding.  She  was 
very  handsome,  fierce,  and  gentle,  with  a  small,  com- 
pact, finely-shaped  head,  and  a  pair  of  wonderful  eyes, 
—  as  full  of  fire  and  of  softness  as  Grisi's ;  indeed 
she  had  to  my  eye  a  curious  look  of  that  wonderful 
genius  —  at  once  wild  and  fond.  It  was  a  fine  sight 
to  see  her  on  the  prowl  across  Bowden  Moor,  now 
cantering  with  her  nose  down,  now  gathered  up  on  the 
top  of  a  dyke,  and  with  erect  ears,  looking  across  the 
wild  like  a  moss-trooper  out  on  business,  keen  and  fell. 
She  could  do  everything  it  became  a  dog  to  do,  from 
killing  an  otter  or  a  polecat,  to  watching  and  playing 
with  a  baby,  and  was  as  docile  to  her  master  as  she 
was  surly  to  all  else.  She  was  not  quarrelsome,  but 
"  being  in,"  she  would  have  pleased  Polonius  as  much, 
as  in  being  "  ware  of  entrance."  She  was  never 
beaten,  and  she  killed  on  the  spot  several  of  the 
country  bullies  who  came  out  upon  her  when  follow- 
ing her  master  in  his  rounds.  She  generally  sent  them 


OUR   DOGS.  59 

off  howling  with  one  snap,  but  if  this  was  not  enough, 
she  made  an  end  of  it. 

But  it  was  as  a  mother  that  she  shone ;  and  to  see 
the  gypsy,  Hagar-like  creature  nursing  her  occasional 
Ishmael  —  playing  with  him,  and  fondling  him  all 
over,  teaching  his  teeth  to  war,  and  with  her  eye  and 
the  curl  of  her  lip  daring  any  one  but  her  master  to 
touch  him,  was  like  seeing  Grisi  watching  her  darling 
"  Gennaro,"  who  so  little  knew  why  and  how  much 
she  loved  him. 

Once  when  she  had  three  pups,  one  of  them  died. 
For  two  days  and  nights  she  gave  herself  up  to  try- 
ing to  bring  it  to  life  —  licking  it  and  turning  it  over 
and  over,  growling  over  it,  and  all  but  worrying  it 
to  awake  it.  She  paid  no  attention  to  the  living  two, 
gave  them  no  milk,  flung  them  away  with  her  teeth, 
and  would  have  killed  them,  had  they  been  allowed 
to  remain  with  her.  She  was  as  one  possessed,  and 
neither  ate,  nor  drank,  nor  slept,  was  heavy  and  miser- 
able with  her  milk,  and  in  such  a  state  of  excitement 
that  no  one  could  remove  the  dead  pup. 

Early  on  the  third  day  she  was  seen  to  take  the 
pup  in  her  mouth,  and  start  across  the  fields  towards 
the  Tweed,  striding  like  a  race-horse  —  she  plunged 
in,  holding  up  her  burden,  and  at  the  middle  of  the 
stream  dropped  it  and  swam  swiftly  ashore ;  then  she 
stood  and  watched  the  little  dark  lump  floating  away, 
bobbing  up  and  down  with  the  current,  and  losing  it 
at  last  far  down,  she  made  her  way  home,  sought  out 
the  living  two,  devoured  them  with  her  love,  carried 


60  OUR   DOGS. 

them  one  by  one  to  her  lair,  and  gave  herself  up 
wholly  to  nurse  them ;  you  can  fancy  her  mental  and 
bodily  happiness  and  relief  when  they  were  pulling 
away  —  and  theirs. 

On  one  occasion  my  brother  had  lent  her  to  a  wo- 
man who  lived  in  a  lonely  house,  and  whose  husband 
was  away  for  a  time.  She  was  a  capital  watch.  One 
day  an  Italian  with  his  organ  came  —  first  begging, 
then  demanding  money  —  showing  that  he  knew  she 
was  alone  and  that  he  meant  to  help  himself,  if  she 
did  n't.  She  threatened  to  "  lowse  the  dowg  ;  "  but 
as  this  was  Greek  to  him,  he  pushed  on.  She  had 
just  time  to  set  Wasp  at  him.  It  was  very  short 
work.  She  had  him  by  the  throat,  pulled  him  and 
his  organ  down  with  a  heavy  crash,  the  organ  giv- 
ing a  ludicrous  sort  of  cry  of  musical  pain.  "Wasp, 
thinking  this  was  from  some  creature  within,  possi- 
bly a  ^vh^ttret,  left  the  ruffian,  and  set  to  work  tooth 
and  nail  on  the  box.  Its  master  slunk  off,  and  with 
mingled  fury  and  thankfulness  watched  her  disem- 
boweling his  only  means  of  an  honest  living.  The 
woman  good-naturedly  took  her  off,  and  signed  to  the 
miscreant  to  make  himself  and  his  remains  scarce. 
This  he  did  with  a  scowl ;  and  was  found  in  the  even- 
ing in  the  village,  telling  a  series  of  lies  to  the  watch- 
maker, and  bribing  him  with  a  shilling  to  mend  his 
pipes  —  "  his  kist  o'  whussels." 


OUR    DOGS.  61 


JOCK 

Was  insane  from  his  birth;  at  first  an  amab'dis  insa- 
nia,  but  ending  in  mischief  and  sudden  death.  He 
was  an  English  terrier,  fawn-colored ;  his  mother's 
name  VAMP  (Vampire),  and  his  father's  DEMOX. 
He  was  more  properly  daft  than  mad ;  his  courage, 
muscularity,  and  prodigious  animal  spirits  making 
him  insufferable,  and  never  allowing  one  sane  feature 
of  himself  any  chance.  No  sooner  was  the  street 
door  open,  than  he  was  throttling  the  first  dog  pass- 
ing, bringing  upon  himself  and  me  endless  grief.  Cats 
he  tossed  up  into  the  air,  and  crushed  their  spines  as 
they  fell.  Old  ladies  he  upset  by  jumping  over  their 
heads  ;  old  gentlemen  by  running  between  their  legs. 
At  home,  he  would  think  nothing  of  leaping  through 
the  tea-things,  upsetting  the  urn,  cream,  etc.,  and  at 
dinner  the  same  sort  of  thing.  I  believe  if  I  could 
have  found  time  to  thrash  him  sufficiently,  and  let 
him  be  a  year  older,  we  might  have  kept  him  ;  but 
having  upset  an  Earl  when  the  streets  were  muddy, 
I  had  to  part  with  him.  He  was  sent  to  a  clergyman 
in  the  island  of  Westray,  one  of  the  Orkneys ;  and 
though  he  had  a  wretched  voyage,  and  was  as  sick  as 
any  dog,  he  signalized  the  first  moment  of  his  arrival 
at  the  manse  by  strangling  an  ancient  monkey,  or 
"  puggy?"  the  pet  of  the  minister,  —  who  was  a  bach- 
elor,—  and  the  wonder  of  the  island.  Jock  hence- 
forward took  to  evil  courses,  extracting  the  kidneys 


62  OUR   DOGS. 

of  the  best  young  rams,  driving  whole  hirsels  down 
steep  places  into  the  sea,  till  at  last  all  the  guns  of 
Westray  were  pointed  at  him,  as  he  stood  at  bay 
under  a  huge  rock  on  the  shore,  and  blew  him  into 
space.  I  always  regret  his  end,  and  blame  myself 
for  sparing  the  rod.  Of 

DUCHIE 

I  have  already  spoken;  her  oddities  were  endless. 
We  had  and  still  have  a  dear  friend,  — "  Cousin 
Susan  "  she  is  called  by  many  who  are  not  her  cous- 
ins, —  a  perfect  lady,  and,  though  hopelessly  deaf, 
as  gentle  and  contented  as  was  ever  Griselda  with  the 
full  use  of  her  ears ;  quite  as  great  a  pet,  in  a  word, 
of  us  all  as  Duchie  was  of  ours.  One  day  we  found 
her  mourning  the  death  of  a  cat,  a  great  playfellow 
of  the  Sputchard's,  and  her  small  Grace  was  with^us 
when  we  were  condoling  with  her  and  we  saw  that 
she  looked  very  wistfully  at  Duchie.  I  wrote  on  the 
slate,  "  Would  you  like  her  ?  "  and  she  through  her 
tears  said,  "  You  know  that  would  never  do."  But 
it  did  do.  We  left  Duchie  that  very  night,  and 
though  she  paid  us  frequent  visits,  she  was  Cousin 
Susan's  for  life.  I  fear  indulgence  dulled  her  moral 
sense.  She  was  an  immense  happiness  to  her  mis- 
tress, whose  silent  and  lonely  days  she  made  glad  with 
her  oddity  and  mirth.  And  yet  the  small  creature, 
old,  toothless,  and  blind,  domineered  over  her  gentle 
friend  —  threatening  her  sometimes  if  she  presumed 


OUR   DOGS.  63 

to  remove  the  small  Fury  from  the  inside  of  her  own 
bed,  into  which  it  pleased  her  to  creep.  Indeed,  I 
helieve  it  is  too  true,  though  it  was  inferred  only, 
that  her  mistress  and  friend  spent  a  great  part  of  a 
winter  night  in  trying  to  coax  her  dear  little  ruffian 
out  of  the  centre  of  the  bed.  One  day  the  cook 
asked  what  she  would  have  for  dinner :  "  I  would 
like  a  mutton  chop,  but  then,  you  know,  Duchie  likes 
minced  veal  better  !  "  The  faithful  and  happy  little 
creature  died  at  a  great  age,  of  natural  decay. 

But  time  would  fail  me,  and  I  fear  patience  would 
fail  you,  my  reader,  were  I  to  tell  you  of  CRAB,  of 
JOHN  PYM,  of  PUCK,  and  of  the  rest.  GRAB,  the 
Mugger's  dog,  grave,  with  deep-set,  melancholy  eyes, 
as  of  a  nobleman  (say  the  Master  of  Ravenswood)  in 
disguise,  large  visaged,  shaggy,  indomitable,  come  of 
the  pure  Piper  Allan's  breed.  This  Piper  Allan,  you 
must  know,  lived  some  two  hundred  years  ago  in 
Cocquet  Water,  piping  like  Homer,  from  place  to 
place,  and  famous  not  less  for  his  dog  than  for  his 
music,  his  news,  and  his  songs.  The  Earl  of  North- 
umberland, of  his  day,  offered  the  piper  a  small  farm 
for  his  dog,  but  after  deliberating  for  a  day  Allan 
said,  "  Na,  na,  ma  Lord,  keep  yir  ferum ;  what  wud 
a  piper  do  wi'  a  ferum  ?  "  From  this  dog  descended 
Davidson  of  Hyndlee's  breed,  the  original  Dandie- 
Dinmont,  and  Crab  could  count  his  kin  up  to  him. 
He  had  a  great  look  of  the  Right  Honorable  Edward 
Ellice,  and  had  much  of  his  energy  and  wecht ;  had 


64  OUR   DOGS. 

there  been  a  dog  House  of  Commons,  Crab  would 
have  spoken  as  seldom,  and  been  as  great  a  power 
in  the  house,  as  the  formidable  and  faithful  time-out- 
of-mind  member  for  Coventry. 

JOHN  PYM  was  a  smaller  dog  than  Crab,  of  more 
fashionable  blood,  being  a  son  of  Mr.  Somner's  famous 
SHEM,  whose  father  and  brother  are  said  to  have 
been  found  dead  in  a  drain  into  which  the  hounds 
had  run  a  fox.  It  had  three  entrances :  the  father 
was  put  in  at  one  hole,  the  son  at  another,  and 
speedily  the  fox  bolted  out  at  the  third,  but  no  ap- 
pearance of  the  little  terriers,  and  on  digging,  they 
were  found  dead,  locked  in  each  other's  jaws ;  they 
had  met,  and  it  being  dark,  and  there  being  no  time 
for  explanations,  they  had  throttled  each  other.  John 
was  made  of  the  same  sort  of  stuff,  and  was  as  com- 
bative and  victorious  as  his  great  namesake,  and  not 
unlike  him  in  some  of  his  not  so  creditable  qualities. 
He  must,  I  think,  have  been  related  to  a  certain  dog 
to  whom  "  life  was  full  o'  sairiousness,"  but  in  John's 
case  the  same  cause  produced  an  opposite  effect. 
John  was  gay  and  light-hearted,  even  when  there  was 
not  "  enuff  of  fechtin,"  which,  however,  seldom  hap- 
pened, there  being  a  market  every  week  in  Melrose, 
and  John  appearing  most  punctually  at  the  cross  to 
challenge  all  comers,  and  being  short-legged  he  in- 
veigled every  dog  into  an  engagement  by  first  at- 
tacking him,  and  then  falling  down  on  his  back,  in 
which  posture  he  latterly  fought  and  won  all  his 
battles.  ' 


OUR   DOGS.  65 

What  can  I  say  of  PUCK  1  —  the  thoroughbred  — 
the  simple-hearted  —  the  purloiner  of  eggs  warm 
from  the  hen  —  the  flutterer  of  all  manner  of  Vol- 
scians  —  the  bandy  -  legged,  dear,  old,  dilapidated 
buffer  ?  I  got  him  from  my  brother,  and  only  parted 
with  him  because  William's  stock  was  gone.  He  had 
to  the  end  of  life  a  simplicity  which  was  quite  touch- 
ing. One  summer  day  —  a  dog-day  —  when  all  dogs 
found  straying  were  hauled  away  to  the  police-office, 
and  killed  off  in  twenties  with  strychnine,  I  met 
Pirck  trotting  along  Princes  Street  with  a  policeman, 
a  rope  round  his  neck,  he  looking  up  in  the  fatal, 
official,  but  kindly  countenance  in  the  most  artless 
and  cheerful  manner,  wagging  his  tail  and  trotting 
along.  In  ten  minutes  he  would  have  been  in  the 
next  world ;  for  I  am  one  of  those  who  believe  dogs 

1  In  The  Dog,  by  Stonehenge,  an  excellent  book,  there  is  a 
•woodcut  of  Puck,  and  "  Dr.  Wm.  Brown's  celebrated  dog 
John  Pym  "  is  mentioned.  Their  pedigrees  are  given  —  here 
is  Puck's,  •which  shows  his  "  strain "'  is  of  the  pure  azure 
blood  —  "  got  by  John  Pym,  out  of  Tib  ;  bred  by  Purves  of 
Leaderfoot ;  sire,  Old  Dandie,  the  famous  dog  of  old  John 
Stoddart  of  Selkirk  —  dam,  Whin."  How  Homeric  all  this 
sounds !  I  cannot  help  quoting  what  follows  :  "  Sometimes 
a  Dandie  pup  of  a  good  strain  may  appear  not  to  be  game  at 
an  early  age  ;  but  he  should  not  be  parted  with  on  this  ac- 
count, because  many  of  them  do  not  show  their  courage  till 
nearly  two  years  old,  and  then  nothing  can  beat  them ;  this 
apparent  softness  arising,  as  I  suspect,  from  kindness  of  heart" 
—  a  suspicion,  my  dear  "  Stonehenge,"  which  is  true,  and 
shows  your  own  "  kindness  of  heart,"  as  well  as  sense. 


66  OUR  DOGS. 

have  a  next  world,  and  why  not?  Puck  ended  his 
days  as  the  best  dog  in  Roxburghshire,  Placide 
quiescas  ! 

DICK 

Still  lives,  and  long  may  he  live  ?  As  he  was  never 
born,  possibly  he  may  never  die ;  be  it  so,  he  will 
miss  us  when  we  are  gone.  I  could  say  much  of  him, 
but  agree  with  the  lively  and  admirable  Dr.  Jortin, 
when,  in  his  dedication  of  his  Remarks  on  Eccle- 
siastical History  to  the  then  (1752)  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury,  he  excuses  himself  for  not  following  the 
modern  custom  of  praising  his  Patron,  by  reminding 
his  Grace  "  that  it  was  a  custom  amongst  the  an- 
cients, not  to  sacrifice  to  heroes  till  after  sunset.1"  I 
defer  my  sacrifice  till  Dick's  sun  is  set. 

I  think  every  family  should  have  a  dog  ;  it  is  like 
having  a  perpetual  baby ;  it  is  the  plaything  and 
crony  of  the  whole  house.  It  keeps  them  all  young. 
All  unite  upon  Dick.  And  then  he  tells  no  tales,  be- 
trays no  secrets,  never  sulks,  asks  no  troublesome 
questions,  never  gets  into  debt,  never  coming  down 
late  for  breakfast,  or  coming  in  through  his  Chubb 
too  early  to  bed  —  is  always  ready  for  a  bit  of  fun, 
lies  in  wait  for  it,  and  you  may,  if  choleric,  to  your 
relief,  kick  him  instead  of  some  one  else,  who  would 
not  take  it  so  meekly,  and,  moreover,  would  certainly 
not,  as  he  does,  ask  your  pardon  for  being  kicked. 

Never  put  a  collar  on  your  dog  —  it  only  gets  him 


OUR   DOGS. 


67 


stolen ;  give  him  only  one  meal  a  day,  and  let  that, 
as  Dame  Dorothy,  Sir  Thomas  Browne's  wife,  would 
say,  be  "  rayther  under."  Wash  him  once  a  week, 
and  always  wash  the  soap  out ;  and  let  him  be  care- 
fully combed  and  brushed  twice  a  week. 

By  the  bye,  I  was  wrong  in  saying  that  it  was 
Burns  who  said  Man  is  the  God  of  the  Dog  —  he  got 
it  from  Bacon's  Essay  on  Atheism. 


MORE  OF  "OUR  DOGS." 
PETER. 

PETER  died  young,  —  very  quick  and  soon  that 
bright  thing  came  to  confusion.  He  died  of  excess 
of  life ;  his  vivacity  slew  him.  Plucky  and  silent 
under  punishment,  or  any  pain  from  without,  pain 
from  within,  in  his  own,  precious,  brisk,  enjoying 
body,  was  an  insufferable  offense,  affront,  and  mys- 
tery, —  an  astonishment  not  to  be  borne,  —  he  dis- 
dained to  live  under  such  conditions. 

One  day  he  came  in  howling  with  pain.  There 
was  no  injury,  no  visible  cause,  but  he  was  wildly  ill, 
and  in  his  eyes  the  end  of  all  things  had  come.  He 
put  so  many  questions  to  us  at  each  pang  —  what  is 

this?  —  what  the can  it  be? — did  you  ever? 

As  each  paroxysm  doubled  him  up,  he  gave  a  sharp 
cry,  more  of  rage  and  utter  exasperation  than  of  suf- 
fering ;  he  got  up  to  run  away  from  it  —  why  should 
he  die  ?  Why  should  he  be  shut  up  in  darkness  and 
obstruction  at  that  hour  of  his  opening  morn,  —  his 
sweet  hour  of  prime?  And  so  raging,  and  utterly 
put  out,  the  honest,  dear  little  fellow  went  off  in  an 
ecstasy  of  fury  at  death,  at  its  absurdity  in  his  case. 


MORE   OF   "OUR  DOGS."  69 

We  never  could  explain  his  death ;  it  was  not  poi- 
son or  injury ;  he  actually  expired  when  careering 
round  the  green  at  full  speed,  as  if  to  outrun  his 
enemy,  or  shake  him  off.  We  have  not  yet  got  over 
his  loss,  and  all  the  possibilities  that  lie  buried  in  his 
grave,  in  the  Park,  beneath  a  young  chestnut-tree 
where  the  ruddy-cheeked,  fat,  and  cordial  coachman, 
who  of  old,  in  the  grand  old  Reform  days,  used  to 
drive  his  master,  Mr.  Speaker  Abercromby,  down  to 
"  the  House  "  with  much  stateliness  and  bouquet,  and 
I  dug  it  for  him,  —  that  Park  in  which  Peter  had 
often  disported  himself,  fluttering  the  cocks  and  hens, 
and  putting  to  flight  the  squadron  of  Gleneagle's 
wedders. 

DICK. 

He  too  is  dead,  —  he  who,  never  having  been 
born,  we  had  hoped  never  would  die  ;  not  that  he 
did  —  like  Rab  —  "  exactly  "  die  ;  he  was  slain.  He 
was  fourteen,  and  getting  deaf  and  blind,  and  a  big 
bully  of  a  retriever  fell  on  him  one  Sunday  morning 
when  the  bells  were  ringing.  Dick,  who  always 
fought  at  any  odds,  gave  battle  ;  a  Sabbatarian  cab 
turned  the  corner,  the  big  dog  fled,  and  Dick  was  run 
over,  —  there  in  his  own  street,  as  all  his  many 
friends  were  going  to  church.  His  back  was  broken, 
and  he  died  on  Monday  night  with  us  all  about  him ; 
dear  for  his  own  sake,  dearer  for  another's,  whose 
name  —  Sine  Qua,  Non  —  is  now  more  than  ever 
true,  now  that  she  is  gone. 


70  MORE   OF   "  OUR  DOGS." 

I  was  greatly  pleased  when  Dr.  Getting  of  Rox- 
bury  came  in  yesterday  and  introduced  himself  to 
me  by  asking,  "  Where  is  Dick  ?  "  To  think  of  our 
Dick  being  known  in  Massachusetts  ! 

BOB. 

If  Peter  was  the  incarnation  of  vivacity,  Bob  was 
that  of  energy.  He  should  have  been  called  Thalaba 
the  Destroyer.  He  rejoiced  in  demolition,  —  not 
from  ill  temper,  but  from  the  sheer  delight  of  ener- 
gizing. 

When  I  first  knew  him  he  was  at  Blinkbonny  toll. 
The  tollman  and  his  wife  were  old  and  the  house 
lonely,  and  Bob  was  too  terrific  for  any  burglar.  He 
was  as  tall  and  heavy  as  a  foxhound,  but  in  every 
other  respect  a  pure  old-fashioned,  wiry,  short-haired 
Scotch  terrier,  —  red  as  Rob  Boy's  beard,  —  having 
indeed  other  qualities  of  Rob's  than  his  hair,  —  chol- 
eric, unscrupulous,  affectionate,  staunch,  —  not  in  the 
least  magnanimous,  —  as  ready  to  worry  a  little  dog 
as  a  big  one.  Fighting  was  his  "  chief  end,"  and  he 
omitted  no  opportunity  of  accomplishing  his  end. 
Rab  liked  fighting  for  its  own  sake,  too,  but  scorned 
to  fight  anything  under  his  own  weight ;  indeed,  was 
long-suffering  to  public  meanness  with  quarrelsome 
lesser  dogs.  Bob  had  no  such  weakness. 

After  much  difficulty  and  change  of  masters,  I 
bought  him,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  for  five  pounds,  and 
brought  him  home.  He  had  been  chained  for  months, 
was  in  high  health  and  spirits,  and  the  surplus  power 


MORE   OF   "OUR   DOGS."  71 

and  activity  of  this  great  creature,  as  he  dragged  me 
and  my  son  along  the  road,  giving  battle  to  every  dog 
he  met,  was  something  appalling. 

I  very  soon  found  I  could  not  keep  him.  He  wor- 
ried the  pet  dogs  all  around,  and  got  me  into  much 
trouble.  So  I  gave  him  as  night-watchman  to  a  gold- 
smith in  Princess  Street.  This  work  he  did  famously. 
I  once,  in  passing  at  midnight,  stopped  at  the  shop 
and  peered  in  at  the  little  slip  of  glass,  and  by  the 
gas-light  I  saw  where  he  lay.  I  made  a  noise,  and 
out  came  he  with  a  roar  and  a  bang  as  of  a  sledge- 
hammer. I  then  called  his  name,  and  in  an  instant 
all  was  still  except  a  quick  tapping  within  that  inti- 
mated the  wagging  of  the  tail.  He  is  still  there,  — 
has  settled  down  into  a  reputable,  pacific  citizen,  —  a 
good  deal  owing,  perhaps,  to  the  disappearance  in  bat- 
tle of  sundry  of  his  best  teeth.  As  he  lies  in  the  sun 
before  the  shop  door  he  looks  somehow  like  the  old 
Fighting  Te'ine'raire. 

I  never  saw  a  dog  of  the  same  breed  ;  he  is  a  sort 
of  rough  cob  of  a  dog,  —  a  huge  quantity  of  terrier  in 
one  skin  ;  for  he  has  all  the  fun  and  briskness  and 
failings  and  ways  of  a  small  dog,  begging  and  hop- 
ping as  only  it  does.  Once  his  master  took  him  to 
North  Berwick.  His  first  day  he  spent  in  careering 
about  the  sands  and  rocks  and  in  the  sea,  for  he  is  a 
noble  swimmer.  His  next  he  devoted  to  worrying  all 
the  dogs  of  the  town,  beginning,  for  convenience,  with 
the  biggest. 

This  aroused  the  citizens,  and  their  fury  was  brought 


72  MORE   OF   "OUR  DOGS." 

to  a  focus  on  the  third  day  by  its  being  reported  al- 
ternatively that  he  had  torn  a  child's  ear  off,  or  torn 
and  actually  eaten  it.  Up  rose  the  town  as  one  man, 
and  the  women  each  as  two,  and,  headed  by  Matthew 
Cathie,  the  one-eyed  and  excellent  shoemaker,  with  a 
tall,  raw  divinity  student,  knock-kneed  and  six  feet 
two,  who  was  his  lodger,  and  was  of  course  called 
young  Dominie  Sampson,  they  bore  down  upon  Bob 
and  his  master,  who  were  walking  calmly  on  the 
shore. 

Bob  was  for  making  a  stand,  after  the  manner  of 
Coriolanus,  and  banishing  by  instant  assault  the 
"  common  cry  of  curs ; "  but  his  master  saw  sundry 
guns  and  pistols,  not  to  speak  of  an  old  harpoon,  and 
took  to  his  heels,  as  the  only  way  of  getting  Bob  to 
take  to  his.  Aurifex,  with  much  nous,  made  for  the 
police  station,  and,  with  the  assistance  of  the  consta- 
bles and  half  a  crown,  got  Thalaba  locked  up  for  the 
night,  safe  and  sulky. 

Next  morning,  Sunday,  when  Cathie  and  his  huge 
student  lay  uneasily  asleep,  dreaming  of  vengeance, 
and  the  early  dawn  was  beautiful  upon  the  Bass,  with 
its  snowy  cloud  of  sea-birds  "  brooding  on  the  charmed 
wave,"  Bob  was  hurried  up  to  the  station,  locked  into 
a  horse-box,  —  him  never  shall  that  ancient  Burgh 
forget  or  see. 

I  have  a  notion  that  dogs  have  humor,  and  are  per- 
ceptive of  a  joke.  In  the  North,  a  shepherd,  having 
sold  his  sheep  at  a  market,  was  asked  by  the  buyer  to 
lend  him  his  dog  to  take  them  home.  "  By  a'  man- 


MORE   OF   "OUR  DOGS."  73 

ner  o'  means  tak  Birkie,  and  when  ye  'r  dune  wi'  him 
just  play  so  "  (making  a  movement  with  his  arm), 
"  and  he  '11  be  hame  in  a  jiffy."  Birkie  was  so  clever 
and  useful  and  gay  that  the  borrower  coveted  him ; 
and  on  getting  to  his  farm  shut  him  up,  intending  to 
keep  him.  Birkie  escaped  during  the  night,  and  took 
the  entire  hirsel  (flock)  back  to  his  own  master ! 
Fancy  him  trotting  across  the  moor  with  them,  they 
as  willing  as  he. 


PLEA  FOR  A  DOG   HOME. 

EDINBUBGH,  December  8,  1862. 

SIR,  —  I  am  rejoiced  to  find  Mr.  William  Cham- 
bers has  taken  up  this  matter.  There  is  no  fear  of 
failure  if  Glenormiston  sets  himself  to  organize  a 
home  for  our  destitute  four-footed  fellow-creatures, 
from  whom  we  get  so  much  of  the  best  enjoyment, 
affection,  and  help.  It  need  not  be  an  expensive  in- 
stitution, —  if  the  value  of  the  overplus  of  good  eat- 
ing that,  from  our  silly  over-indulgence,  makes  our 
town  dogs  short-lived,  lazy,  mangy,  and  on  a  rare 
and  enlivening  occasion  mad,  were  represented  by 
money,  all  the  homeless,  starving  dogs  of  the  city 
would  be  warmed  and  fed,  and  their  dumb  miseries 
turned  into  food  and  gladness.  When  we  see  our 
Peppers,  and  Dicks,  and  Muffs,  and  Nellys,  and 
Dandies,  and  who  knows  how  many  other  cordial 
little  ruffians  with  the  shortest  and  spiciest  of  names, 
on  the  rug,  warm  and  cozy,  —  pursuing  in  their 
dreams  that  imaginary  cat,  —  let  us  think  of  their 
wretched  brethren  or  sisters  without  food,  without 
shelter,  without  a  master  or  a  bone.  It  only  needs 
a  beginning,  this  new  ragged  school  and  home, 
where  the  religious  element  happily  is  absent,  and 


PLEA    FOR   A   DOG   HOME.  75 

Dr.  Guthrie  may  go  halves  with  me  in  paying  for 
the  keep  of  a  rescued  cur.  There  is  no  town  where 
there  are  so  many  thoroughbred  house-dogs.  I  could 
produce  from  my  own  dog  acquaintance  no  end  of 
first-class  Dandie  Dinmonts  and  Skyes  ;  and  there  is 
no  town  where  there  is  more  family  enjoyment 
from  dogs,  —  from  Paterfamilias  down  to  the  baby 
whose  fingers  are  poked  with  impunity  into  eyes  as 
fierce  and  fell  as  Dirk  Hatteraick's  or  Meg  Mer- 
rilies's.  / 

Many  years  ago,  I  got  a  proof  of  the  unseen,  and, 
therefore,  unhelped  miseries  of  the  homeless  dog.  I 
was  walking  down  Duke  Street,  when  I  felt  myself 
gently  nipped  in  the  leg,  —  I  turned,  and  there  was 
a  ragged  little  terrier  crouching  and  abasing  himself 
utterly,  as  if  asking  pardon  for  what  he  had  done. 
He  then  stood  up  on  end  and  begged  as  only  these 
coaxing  little  ruffians  can.  Being  in  a  hurry,  I 
curtly  praised  his  performance  with  "  Good  dog !  " 
clapped  his  dirty  sides,  and,  turning  round,  made 
down  the  hill ;  when  presently  the  same  nip,  perhaps 
a  little  nippier,  —  the  same  scene,  only  more  intense, 
the  same  begging  and  urgent  motioning  of  his  short, 
shaggy  paws.  "  There  's  meaning  in  this,"  said  I  to 
myself,  and  looked  at  him  keenly  and  differently. 
He  seemed  to  twig  at  once,  and,  with  a  shrill  cry, 
was  off  much  faster  than  I  could.  He  stopped  every 
now  and  then  to  see  that  I  followed,  and,  by  way  of 
putting  off  the  time  and  urging  me,  got  up  on  the 
aforesaid  portion  of  his  body,  and,  when  I  came  up, 


76  PLEA   FOR   A  DOG  HOME. 

was  off  again.  This  continued  till,  after  going 
through  sundry  streets  and  by-lanes,  we  came  to  a 
gate,  under  which  my  short -legged  friend  disap- 
peared. Of  course  I  couldn't  follow  him.  This  as- 
tonished him  greatly.  He  came  out  to  me,  and  as 

much  as  said,  "  Why  the don't   you  come  in  ?  " 

I  tried  to  open  it,  but  in  vain.  My  friend  vanished 
and  was  silent.  I  was  leaving  in  despair  and  dis- 
gust, when  I  heard  his  muffled,  ecstatic  yelp  far  off 
round  the  end  of  the  wall,  and  there  he  was,  wild 
with  excitement.  I  followed  and  came  to  a  place 
where,  with  a  somewhat  burglarious  ingenuity,  I  got 
myself  squeezed  into  a  deserted  coachyard,  lying  all 
rude  and  waste.  My  peremptory  small  friend  went 
under  a  shed,  and  disappeared  in  a  twinkling  through 
the  window  of  an  old  coach-body,  which  had  long 
ago  parted  from  its  wheels  and  become  sedentary.  I 
remember  the  arms  of  the  Fife  family  were  on  its 
panel ;  and,  I  dare  say,  this  chariot,  with  its  C 
springs,  had  figured  in  1822  at  the  King's  visit,  when 
all  Scotland  was  somewhat  Fifeish.  I  looked  in,  and 
there  was  a  pointer  bitch  with  a  litter  of  five  pups  ; 
the  mother,  like  a  ghost,  wild  with  maternity  and 
hunger  ;  her  raging,  yelling  brood  tearing  away  at 
her  dry  dugs.  I  never  saw  a  more  affecting  or 
more  miserable  scene  than  that  family  inside  the 
coach.  The  poor  bewildered  mother,  I  found,  had 
been  lost  by  some  sportsman  returning  South,  and 
must  have  slunk  away  there  into  that  deserted  place, 
when  her  pangs  (for  she  has  her  pangs  as  well  as  a 


PLEA   FOR   A   DOG  HOME.  77 

duchess)  came,  and  there,  in  that  forlorn  retreat,  had 
she  been  with  them,  rushing  out  to  grab  any  chance 
garbage,  running  back  fiercely  to  them,  —  this  going 
on  day  after  day,  night  after  night.  What  the  re- 
lief was  when  we  got  her  well  fed  and  cared  for,  — • 
and  her  children  filled  and  silent,  all  cuddling  about 
her  asleep,  and  she  asleep  too,  —  awaking  up  to  as- 
sure herself  that  this  was  all  true,  and  that  there 
they  were,  all  the  five,  each  as  plump  as  a  plum,  — 

"  All  too  happy  in  the  treasure, 
Of  her  own  exceeding  pleasure,"  — 

what  this  is  in  kind,  and  all  the  greater  in  amount 
as  many  outnumber  one,  may  be  the  relief,  the  hap- 
piness, the  charity  experienced  and  exercised  in  a 
homely,  well  -  regulated  Dog  Home.  Nipper  —  for 
he  was  a  waif  —  I  took  home  that  night,  and  gave 
him  his  name.  He  lived  a  merry  life  with  me, 
showed  much  pluck  and  zeal  in  the  killing  of  rats, 
and  incontinently  slew  a  cat  which  had  —  unnatural 
brute,  unlike  his  friend  —  deserted  her  kittens,  and 
was  howling  offensively  inside  his  kennel.  He  died, 
aged  sixteen,  healthy,  lean,  and  happy  to  the  last. 
As  for  Perdita  and  her  pups,  they  brought  large 
prices,  the  late  Andrew  Buchanan,  of  Coltbridge,  an 
excellent  authority  and  man  —  the  honestest  dog- 
dealer  I  ever  knew —  having  discovered  that  their 
blood  and  her  culture  were  of  the  best. 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  BLACK  AND  TAN. 

WE,  —  the  Sine  Qua  Non,  the  Duchess,  the 
Sputchard,  the  Dutchard,  the  Ricapicticapic,  Oz  and 
Oz,  the  Maid  of  Lorn,  and  myself,  —  left  Crieff  some 
fifteen  years  ago,  on  a  bright  September  morning, 
soon  after  daybreak,  in  a  gig.  It  was  a  morning  still 
and  keen :  the  sun  sending  his  level  shafts  across 
Strathearn,  and  through  the  thin  mist  over  its  river 
hollows,  to  the  fierce  Aberuchil  Hills,  and  searching 
out  the  dark  blue  shadows  in  the  corries  of  Benvor- 
lich.  But  who  and  how  many  are  "  we  "  ?  To  make 
you  as  easy  as  we  all  were,  let  me  tell  you  we  were 
four ;  and  are  not  these  dumb  friends  of  ours  persons 
rather  than  things  ?  Is  not  their  soul  ampler,  as  Plato 
would  say,  than  their  body,  and  contains  rather  than 
is  contained  ?  Is  not  what  lives  and  wills  in  them, 
and  is  affectionate,  as  spiritual,  as  immaterial,  as  truly 
removed  from  mere  flesh,  blood,  and  bones,  as  that 
soul  which  is  the  proper  self  of  their  master  ?  And 
when  we  look  each  other  in  the  face,  as  I  now  look 
in  Dick's,  who  is  lying  in  his  "  corny  "  by  the  fire- 
side, and  he  in  mine,  is  it  not  as  much  the  dog  within 
looking  from  out  his  eyes  —  the  windows  of  his  soul 
—  as  it  is  the  man  from  his  ? 


THE  MYSTERY   OF   BLACK  AND   TAN.  79 

The  Sine  Qua  Non,  who  will  not  be  pleased  at 
being  spoken  of,  is  such  an  one  as  that  vain-glorious 
and  chivalrous  Ulric  von  Hiitten  —  the  Reformation's 
man  of  wit,  and  of  the  world,  and  of  the  sword,  who 
slew  Monkery  with  the  wild  laughter  of  his  Epistolce 
Obscuromm  Fm>rwm  — had  in  his  mind  when  he 
wrote  thus  to  his  friend  Fredericus  Piscator  (Mr. 
Fred.  Fisher),  on  the  19th  May,  1519,  "  Da  mihi 
uxorem,  Friderice,  et  ut  scias  qualem,  venustam,  ado- 
lescent ulam,  probe  educatam,  hilarem,  verecundam, 
patientem."  "  Qualem,"  he  lets  Frederic  understand 
in  the  sentence  preceding,  is  one  "  qud  cum  ludam, 
qud  jocos  confer  am,  amceniores  et  leviusculas  fabidas 
misceam,  ubi  soilicitudinis  aciem  obtundam,  curarum 
cestus  mitiyem."  And  if  you  would  know  more  of 
the  Sine  Qua  Non,  and  in  English,  for  the  world  is 
dead  to  Latin  now,  you  will  find  her  name  and  nature 
in  Shakespeare's  words,  when  King  Henry  the  Eighth 
says,  "  go  thy  ways." 

The  Duchess,  alias  all  the  other  names  till  you 
come  to  the  Maid  of  Lorn,  is  a  rough,  gnarled,  in- 
comparable little  bit  of  a  terrier,  three  parts  Dandie- 
Dinmont,  and  one  part  —  chiefly  in  tail  and  hair  — 
cocker :  her  father  being  Lord  Rutherfurd's  famous 
"  Dandie,"  and  her  mother  the  daughter  of  a  Skye, 
and  a  light-hearted  Cocker.  The  Duchess  is  about 
the  si/e  and  weight  of  a  rabbit ;  but  has  a  soul  as  big, 
as  fierce,  and  as  faithful  as  had  Meg  Merrilies,  with 
a  nose  as  black  as  Topsy's  ;  and  is  herself  every  bit 
as  game  and  queer  as  that  delicious  imp  of  darkness 


80  THE   MYSTERY   OF   BLACK   AND   TAN. 

and  of  Mrs.  Stowe.  Her  legs  set  her  long  slim  body 
about  two  inches  and  a  half  from  the  ground,  making 
her  very  like  a  huge  caterpillar  or  hairy  oobit  —  her 
two  eyes,  dark  and  full,  and  her  shining  nose,  being 
all  of  her  that  seems  anything  but  hair.  Her  tail 
was  a  sort  of  stump,  in  size  and  in  look  very  much 
like  a  spare  foreleg,  stuck  in  anywhere  to  be  near. 
Her  color  was  black  above  and  a  rich  brown  below, 
with  two  dots  of  tan  above  the  eyes,  which  dots  are 
among  the  deepest  of  the  mysteries  of  Black  and 
Tan. 

This  strange  little  being  I  had  known  for  some 
years,  but  had  only  possessed  about  a  month.  She 
and  her  pup  (a  young  lady  called  Smoot,  which  means 
smolt,  a  young  salmon),  were  given  me  by  the  widow 
of  an  honest  and  drunken  —  as  much  of  the  one  as  of 
the  other  —  Edinburgh  street-porter,  a  native  of  Ba- 
denoch,  as  a  legacy  from  him  and  a  fee  from  her  for 
my  attendance  on  the  poor  man's  death-bed.  But  my 
first  sight  of  the  Duchess  was  years  before  in  Brough- 
ton  Street,  when  I  saw  her  sitting  bolt  upright,  beg- 
ging, imploring,  with  those  little  rough  four  leggies, 
and  those  yearning,  beautiful  eyes,  all  the  world,  or 
any  one,  to  help  her  master,  who  was  lying  "  mortal  " 
in  the  kennel.  I  raised  him,  and  with  the  help  of  a 
ragged  Samaritan,  who  was  only  less  drunk  than  he, 
I  got  Macpherson  —  he  held  from  Glen  Truim  — 
home ;  the  excited  doggie  trotting  off,  and  looking 
back  eagerly  to  show  us  the  way.  I  never  again 
passed  the  Porters'  Stand  without  speaking  to  her. 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  BLACK  AND  TAN.     81 

After  Malcolm's  burial  I  took  possession  of  her  ;  she 
escaped  to  the  wretched  house,  but  as  her  mistress 
was  oft'  to  Kingussie,  and  the  door  shut,  she  gave  a 
pitiful  howl  or  two,  and  was  forthwith  back  at  my 
door,  with  an  impatient,  querulous  bark.  And  so 
this  is  our  second  of  the  four ;  and  is  she  not  deserv- 
ing of  as  many  names  as  any  other  Duchess,  from 
her  of  Medina  Sidonia  downwards  ? 

A  fierier  little  soul  never  dwelt  in  a  queerer  or 
stancher  body ;  see  her  huddled  up,  and  you  would 
think  her  a  bundle  of  hair,  or  a  bit  of  old  mossy 
wood,  or  a  slice  of  heathery  turf,  with  some  red  soil 
underneath  ;  but  speak  to  her,  or  give  her  a  cat  to 
deal  with,  be  it  bigger  than  herself,  and  what  an  in- 
carnation of  affection,  energy,  and  fury  —  what  a  fell 
unquenchable  little  ruffian. 

The  Maid  of  Lorn  was  a  chestnut  mare,  a  broken- 
down  racer,  thoroughbred  as  Beeswing,  but  less  for- 
tunate in  her  life,  and  I  fear  not  so  happy  occasione 
mortis :  unlike  the  Duchess,  her.  body  was  greater 
and  finer  than  her  soul ;  still  she  was  a  ladylike  crea- 
ture, sleek,  slim,  nervous,  meek,  willing,  and  fleet. 
She  had  been  thrown  down  by  some  brutal  half- 
drunk  Forfarshire  laird,  when  he  put  her  wildly  and 
with  her  wind  gone,  at  the  last  hurdle  on  the  North 
Inch  at  the  Perth  races.  She  was  done  for,  and 
bought  for  ten  pounds  by  the  landlord  of  the  Drum- 
mond  Arms,  Crieff,  who  had  been  taking  as  much 
money  out  of  her,  and  putting  as  little  corn  into  her 
as  was  compatible  with  life,  purposing  to  run  her  for 


82  THE   MYSTERY   OF   BLACK  AND   TAN. 

the  Consolation  Stakes  at  Stirling.  Poor  young  lady, 
she  was  a  sad  sight  —  broken  in  back,  in  knees,  in 
character,  and  wind  —  in  everything  but  temper, 
which  was  as  sweet  and  all-enduring  as  Penelope's  or 
our  own  Enid's. 

Of  myself,  the  fourth,  I  decline  making  any  ac- 
count. Be  it  sufficient  that  I  am  the  Dutchard's 
master,  and  drove  the  gig. 

It  was,  as  I  said,  a  keen  and  bright  morning,  and 
the  S.  Q.  N.  feeling  chilly,  and  the  Duchess  being 
away  after  a  cat  up  a  back  entry,  doing  a  chance 
stroke  of  business,  and  the  mare  looking  only  half 
breakfasted,  I  made  them  give  her  a  full  feed  of  meal 
and  water,  and  stood  by  and  enjoyed  her  enjoyment. 
It  seemed  too  good  to  be  true,  and  she  looked  up 
every  now  and  then  in  the  midst  of  her  feast,  with 
a  mild  wonder.  Away  she  and  I  bowled  down  the 
sleeping  village,  all  overrun  with  sunshine,  the  dumb 
idiot  man  and  the  birds  alone  up,  for  the  ostler  was 
off  to  his  straw.  There  was  the  S.  Q.  N.  and  her 
small  panting  friend,  who  had  lost  the  cat,  but  had 
got  what  philosophers  say  is  better  —  the  chase. 
"  Noiis  ne  cherchons  jamais  les  choses,  mats  la 
recherche  des  choses,"  says  Pascal.  The  Duchess 
would  substitute  for  les  choses  —  les  chats.  Pursuit, 
not  possession,  was  her  passion.  We  all  got  in,  and 
off  set  the  Maid,  who  was  in  excellent  heart,  quite 
gay,  pricking  her  ears  and  casting  up  her  head,  and 
rattling  away  at  a  great  puce. 

We  baited  at  St.  Fillans,  and  again  cheered  the 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  BLACK  AND  TAN.    83 

heart  of  the  Maid  with  unaccustomed  corn  —  the  S. 
Q.  N.,  Duchie,  and  myself,  going  up  to  the  beautiful 
rising  ground  at  the  back  of  the  inn,  and  lying  on 
the  fragrant  heather  looking  at  the  loch,  witli  its 
mild  gleams  and  shadows,  and  its  second  heaven 
looking  out  from  its  depths,  the  wild,  rough  mountains 
of  Glenartney  towering  opposite.  Duchie,  I  believe, 
was  engaged  in  minor  business  close  at  hand,  and 
caught  and  ate  several  large  flies  and  a  humble-bee ; 
she  was  very  fond  of  this  small  game. 

There  is  not  in  all  Scotland,  or  as  far  as  I  have 
seen  in  all  else,  a  more  exquisite  twelve  miles  of 
scenery  than  that  between  Crieff  and  the  head  of 
Lochearn.  Ochtertyre,  and  its  woods ;  Benchonzie, 
the  headquarters  of  the  earthquakes,  only  lower  than 
Benvorlich  -  Strowan ;  Lawers,  with  its  grand  old 
Scotch  pines ;  Comrie,  with  the  wild  Lednoch ; 
Dunira ;  and  St.  Fillans,  where  we  are  now  lying, 
and  where  the  poor  thoroughbred  is  tucking  in  her 
corn.  We  start  after  two  hours  of  dreaming  in  the 
half  sunlight,  and  rumble  ever  and  anon  over  an 
earthquake,  as  the  common  folk  call  these  same 
hollow,  resounding  rifts  in  the  rock  beneath,  and  ar- 
riving at  the  old  inn  at  Lochearnhead,  have  a  tousle 
tea.  In  the  evening,  when  the  day  was  darkening 
into  night,  Duchie  and  I,  —  the  S.  Q.  N.  remaining 
to  read  and  rest  —  walked  up  Glen  Ogle.  It  was 
then  in  its  primeval  state,  the  new  road  non-existent, 
and  the  old  one  staggering  up  and  down  and  across 
that  most  original  and  Cyclopean  valley,  deep, 
threatening,  savage,  and  yet  beautiful  — 


84     THE  MYSTERY  OF  BLACK  AND  TAN. 

"  Where  rocks  were  rudely  heaped,  and  rent 
As  by  a  spirit  turbulent ; 

Where  sights  were  rough,  and  sounds  were  wild, 
And  everything1  unreconciled  ;  " 

with  flocks  of  mighty  boulders,  straying  all  over  it. 
Some  far  up,  and  frightful  to  look  at,  others  huddled 
down  in  the  river,  immane  pecus,  and  one  huge  un- 
loosened fellow,  as  hig  as  a  manse,  up  aloft  watching 
them,  like  old  Proteus  with  his  calves,  as  if  they  had 
fled  from  the  sea  by  stress  of  weather,  and  had  been 
led  by  their  ancient  herd  altos  visere  monies  —  a 
wilder,  more  "  unreconciled  "  place  I  know  not ;  and 
now  that  the  darkness  was  being  poured  into  it,  those 
big  fellows  looked  bigger,  and  hardly  "  canny." 

Just  as  we  were  turning  to  come  home  —  Duchie 
unwillingly,  as  she  had  much  multifarious,  and  as 
usual  fruitless  hunting  to  do  —  she  and  I  were  startled 
by  seeing  a  dog  in  the  side  of  the  hill,  where  the 
soil  had  been  broken.  She  barked  and  I  stared  ;  she 
trotted  consequentially  up  and  snuffed  more  canino, 
and  I  went  nearer :  it  never  moved,  and  on  coming 
quite  close  I  saw  as  it  were  the  image  of  a  terrier,  a 
something  that  made  me  think  of  an  idea  wwrealized  ; 
the  rough,  short,  scrubby  heather  and  dead  grass, 
made  a  color  and  a  coat  just  like  those  of  a  good 
Highland  terrier  —  a  sort  of  pepper  and  salt  this  one 
was — and  below,  the  broken  soil,  in  which  there  was 
some  iron  and  clay,  with  old  gnarled  roots,  for  all  the 
world  like  its  odd,  bandy,  and  sturdy  legs.  Duchie 
seemed  not  so  easily  unbeguiled  as  I  was,  and  kept 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  BLACK  AND  TAN.    85 

staring,  and  snuffing,  and  growling,  but  did  not  touch 
it,  —  seemed  afraid.  I  left  and  looked  again,  and 
certainly  it  was  very  odd  the  growing  resemblance 
to  one  of  the  indigenous,  hairy,  low-legged  dogs,  one 
sees  all  about  the  Highlands,  terriers,  or  earthy  ones. 
We  came  home,  and  told  the  S.  Q.  N.  our  joke.  I 
dreamt  of  that  visionary  terrier,  that  son  of  the 
soil,  all  night;  and  in  the  very  early  morning,  leav- 
ing the  S.  Q.  N.  asleep,  I  walked  up  with  the  Duch- 
ess to  the  same  spot.  What  a  morning !  it  was 
before  sunrise,  at  least  before  he  had  got  above  Ben- 
vorlich.  The  loch  was  lying  in  a  faint  mist,  beautiful 
exceedingly,  as  if  half  veiled  and  asleep,  the  cataract 
of  Edinample  roaring  less  loudly  than  in  the  night, 
and  the  old  castle  of  the  Lords  of  Lochow,  in  the 
shadow  of  the  hills,  among  its  trees,  might  be  seen 

"  Sole  sitting  by  the  shore  of  old  romance." 

There  was  still  gloom  in  Glen  Ogle,  though  the  beams 
of  the  morning  were  shooting  up  into  the  broad  fields 
of  the  sky.  I  was  looking  back  and  down,  when  I 
heard  the  Duchess  bark  sharply,  and  then  give  a  cry 
of  fear,  and  on  turning  round,  there  was  she  with  as 
much  as  she  had  of  tail  between  her  legs,  where  I 
never  saw  it  before,  and  her  small  Grace,  without 
noticing  me  or  my  cries,  making  down  to  the  inn  and 
her  mistress,  a  hairy  hurricane.  I  walked  on  to  see 
what  it  was,  and  there  in  the  same  spot  as  last  night, 
in  the  bank,  was  a  real  dog  —  no  mistake  ;  it  was  not, 
as  the  day  before,  a  mere  surface  or  spectrum,  or 


86  THE   MYSTERY    OF   BLACK   AND   TAN. 

ghost  of  a  dog ;  it  was  plainly  round  and  substantial ; 
it  was  much  developed  since  eight  P.  M.  As  I  looked, 
it  moved  slightly,  and  as  it  were  by  a  sort  of  shiver, 
as  if  an  electric  shock  (and  why  not  ?)  was  being  ad- 
ministered by  a  law  of  nature  ;  it  had  then  no  tail,  or 
rather  had  an  odd  amorphous  look  in  that  region  ;  its 
eye,  for  it  had  one  —  it  was  seen  in  profile  —  looked 
to  my  profane  vision  like  (why  not  actually  ?)  a  huge 
blaeberry  (vaccinium  Myrtillits,  it  is  well  to  be  scien- 
tific), black  and  full ;  and  I  thought,  —  but  dare  not 
be  sure,  and  had  no  time  or  courage  to  be  minute,  — 
that  where  the  nose  should  be,  there  was  a  small  shin- 
ing black  snail,  probably  the  Limax  niyer  of  M.  de 
Ferussac,  curled  up,  and  if  you  look  at  any  dog's 
nose  you  will  be  struck  with  the  typical  resemblance, 
in  the  corrugations  and  moistness  and  jetty  blackness 
of  the  one  to  the  other,  and  of  the  other  to  the  one. 
He  was  a  strongly  -  built,  wiry,  bandy,  and  short- 
legged  dog.  As  I  was  staring  upon  him,  a  beam  — 
Oh,  first  creative  beam !  —  sent  from  the  sun  — 

"  Like  as  an  arrow  from  a  bow, 
Shot  by  an  archer  strong  "  — 

as  he  looked  over  Benvorlich's  shoulder,  and  piercing 
a  cloudlet  of  mist  which  clung  close  to  him,  and  fill- 
ing it  with  whitest  radiance,  struck  upon  that  eye  or 
berry,  and  lit  up  that  nose  or  snail :  in  an  instant  he 
sneezed  (the  nisus  (sneezus  ?)  formativus  of  the  an- 
cients) ;  the  eye  quivered  and  was  quickened,  and 
with  a  shudder  —  such  as  a  horse  executes  with  that 
curious  muscle  of  the  skin,  of  which  we  have  a  mere 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  BLACK  AND  TAN.     87 

fragment  in  our  neck,  the  Platysma  Myoides,  and 
which  doubtless  has  been  lessened  as  we  lost  our  dis- 
tance from  the  horse-type  —  which  dislodged  some 
dirt  and  stones  and  dead  heather,  and  doubtless  end- 
less beetles,  and,  it  may  be,  made  some  near  weasel 
open  his  other  eye,  up  went  his  tail,  and  out  he  came, 
lively,  entire,  consummate,  warm,  wagging  his  tail,  I 
was  going  to  say  like  a  Christian,  I  mean  like  an  or- 
dinary dog.  Then  flashed  upon  me  the  solution  of 
the  Mystery  of  Black  and  Tan  in  all  its  varieties  : 
the  body,  its  upper  part  gray  or  black  or  yellow  ac- 
cording to  the  upper  soil  and  herbs,  heather,  bent, 
moss,  etc. ;  the  belly  and  feet,  red  or  tan  or  light 
fawn,  according  to  the  nature  of  the  deep  soil,  be  it 
ochrey,  ferruginous,  light  clay,  or  comminuted  mica 
slate.  And  wonderfullest  of  all,  the  DOTS  of  TAN 
above  the  eyes  —  and  who  has  not  noticed  and  won- 
dered as  to  the  philosophy  of  them  ?  —  I  saw  made 
by  the  two  fore  feet,  wet  and  clayey,  being  put 
briskly  up  to  his  eyes  as  he  sneezed  that  genetic,  viv- 
ifying sneeze,  and  leaving  their  mark,  forever. 

He  took  to  me  quite  pleasantly,  by  virtue  of 
"  natural  selection,"  and  has  accompanied  me  thus 
far  in  our  "  struggle  for  life,"  and  he,  and  the  S.  Q. 
N.,  and  the  Duchess,  and  the  Maid,  returned  that 
day  to  Crieff,  and  were  friends  all  our  days.  I  was 
a  little  timid  when  he  was  crossing  a  burn  lest  he 
should  wash  away  his  feet,  but  he  merely  colored  the 
water,  and  every  day  less  and  less,  till  in  a  fortnight 
I  could  wash  him  without  fear  of  his  becoming  a  so- 


88     THE  MYSTERY  OF  BLACK  AND  TAN. 

lution,  or  fluid  extract  of  dog,  and  thus  resolving  the 
mystery  back  into  itself. 

The  mare's  days  were  short.  She  won  the  Conso- 
lation Stakes  at  Stirling,  and  was  found  dead  next 
morning  in  Gibb's  stables.  The  Duchess  died  in  a 
good  old  age,  as  may  be  seen  in  the  history  of  Our 
Dogs.  The  S.  Q.  N.,  and  the  parthenogenesic  earth- 
born,  the  Cespes  Vivus  —  whom  we  sometimes  called 
Joshua,  because  he  was  the  Son  of  None  (Nun),  and 
even  Melchisedec  has  been  whispered,  but  only  that, 
and  Fitz  Memnon,  as  being  as  it  were  a  son  of  the 
Sun,  sometimes  the  Autochthon  avro^6ovo<; ;  (indeed, 
if  the  relation  of  the  coup  de  soleil  and  the  blae- 
berry had  not  been  plainly  causal  and  effectual,  I 
might  have  called  him  Filius  Gunni,  for  at  the  very 
moment  of  that  shudder,  by  which  he  leapt  out  of 
non-life  into  life,  the  Marquis's  gamekeeper  fired  his 
rifle  up  the  hill,  and  brought  down  a  stray  young 
stag,)  these  two  are  happily  with  me  still,  and  at  this 
moment  she  is  out  on  the  grass  in  a  low  easy-chair, 
reading  Emilie  Carlen's  Brilliant  Marriage,  and 
Dick  is  lying  at  her  feet,  watching,  with  cocked  ears, 
some  noise  in  the  ripe  wheat,  possibly  a  chicken,  for, 
poor  fellow,  he  has  a  weakness  for  worrying  hens, 
and  such  small  deer,  when  there  is  a  dearth  of 
greater.  If  any,  as  is  not  unreasonable,  doubt  me 
and  my  story,  they  may  come  and  see  Dick.  I  as- 
sure them  he  is  well  worth  seeing. 


MARJORIE  FLEMING. 

ONE  November  afternoon  in  1810  —  the  year  in 
which  Waverley  was  resumed  and  laid  aside  again,  to 
be  finished  off,  its  last  two  volumes  in  three  weeks, 
and  made  immortal  in  1814,  and  when  its  author,  by 
the  death  of  Lord  Melville,  narrowly  escaped  getting 
a  civil  appointment  in  India  —  three  men,  evidently 
lawyers,  might  have  been  seen  escaping  like  school- 
boys from  the  Parliament  House,  and  speeding  arm- 
in-arm  down  Bank  Street  and  the  Mound,  in  the  teeth 
of  a  surly  blast  of  sleet. 

The  three  friends  sought  the  bield  of  the  low  wall 
old  Edinburgh  boys  remember  well,  and  sometimes 
miss  now,  as  they  struggle  with  the  stout  west  wind. 

The  three  were  curiously  unlike  each  other.  One, 
"  a  little  man  of  feeble  make,  who  would  be  unhappy 
if  his  pony  got  beyond  a  foot  pace,"  slight,  with 
"  small,  elegant  features,  hectic  cheek,  and  soft  hazel 
eyes,  the  index  of  the  quick,  sensitive  spirit  within,  as 
if  he  had  the  warm  heart  of  a  woman,  her  genuine 
enthusiasm,  and  some  of  her  weaknesses."  Another, 
as  unlike  a  woman  as  a  man  can  be ;  homely,  almost 
common,  in  look  and  figure ;  his  hat  and  his  coat,  and 
indeed  his  entire  covering,  worn  to  the  quick,  but  all 


90  MARJORIE   FLEMING. 

of  the  best  material;  what  redeemed  him  from  vul- 
garity and  meanness  were  his  eyes,  deep  set,  heavily 
thatched,  keen,  hungry,  shrewd,  with  a  slumbering 
glow  far  in,  as  if  they  could  be  dangerous  ;  a  man  to 
care  nothing  for  at  first  glance,  but  somehow,  to  give 
a  second  and  not-forgetting  look  at.  The  third  was 
the  biggest  of  the  three,  and  though  lame,  nimble,  and 
all  rough  and  alive  with  power ;  had  you  met  him 
anywhere  else,  you  would  say  he  was  a  Liddesdale 
store-farmer,  come  of  gentle  blood ;  "  a  stout,  blunt 
carle,"  as  he  says  of  himself,  with  the  swing  and  stride 
and  the  eye  of  a  man  of  the  hills,  —  a  large,  sunny, 
out-of-door  air  all  about  him.  On  his  broad  and  some- 
what stooping  shoulders  was  set  that  head  which,  with 
Shakespeare's  and  Bonaparte's,  is  the  best  known  in 
all  the  world. 

He  was  in  high  spirits,  keeping  his  companions  and 
himself  in  roars  of  laughter,  and  every  now  and  then 
seizing  them,  and  stopping,  that  they  might  take  their 
fill  of  the  fun  ;  there  they  stood  shaking  with  laugh- 
ter, "  not  an  inch  of  their  body  free  "  from  its  grip. 
At  George  Street  they  parted,  one  to  Rose  Court,  be- 
hind St.  Andrew's  Church,  one  to  Albany  Street,  the 
other,  our  big  and  limping  friend,  to  Castle  Street. 

We  need  hardly  give  their  names.  The  first  was 
William  Erksine,  afterwards  Lord  Kinnedder,  chased 
out  of  the  world  by  a  calumny,  killed  by  its  foul 
breath, — 

"  And  at  the  touch  of  wrong,  without  a  strife 
Slipped  in  a  moment  out  of  life." 


MARJORIE    FLEMING.  91 

There  is  nothing  in  literature  more  beautiful  or  more 
pathetic  than  Scott's  love  and  sorrow  for  this  friend 
of  his  youth. 

The  second  was  William  Clerk,  —  the  Darsie  Lati- 
mer  of  JKedgauntlet ;  "a  man,"  as  Scott  says,  "of 
the  most  acute  intellects  and  powerful  apprehension," 
but  of  more  powerful  indolence,  so  as  to  leave  the 
world  with  little  more  than  the  report  of  what  he 
might  have  been,  —  a  humorist  as  genuine,  though  not 
quite  so  savagely  Swiftian  as  his  brother  Lord  Eldin, 
neither  of  whom  had  much  of  that  commonest  and 
best  of  all  the  humors,  called  good. 

The  third  we  all  know.  What  has  he  not  done  for 
every  one  of  us  ?  Who  else  ever,  except  Shakespeare, 
so  diverted  mankind,  entertained  and  entertains  a 
world  so  liberally,  so  wholesomely  ?  We  are  fain  to 
say,  not  even  Shakespeare,  for  his  is  something  deeper 
than  diversion,  something  higher  than  pleasure,  and 
yet  who  would  care  to  split  this  hair  ? 

Had  any  one  watched  him  closely  before  and  after 
the  parting,  what  a  change  he  would  see  !  The  bright, 
broad  laugh,  the  shrewd,  jovial  word,  the  man  of  the 
Parliament  House  and  of  the  world ;  and  next  step, 
moody,  the  light  of  his  eye  withdrawn,  as  if  seeing 
things  that  were  invisible ;  his  shut  mouth,  like  a 
child's,  so  impressionable,  so  innocent,  so  sad ;  he  was 
now  all  within,  as  before  he  was  all  without ;  hence 
his  brooding  look.  As  the  snow  blattered  in  his  face, 
he  muttered,  "  How  it  raves  and  drifts  !  On-ding  o' 
snaw,  —  ay  that 's  the  word,  —  on-ding  "  —  He  was 


92  MARJORIE   FLEMING. 

now  at  his  own  door,  "  Castle  Street,  No.  39."  He 
opened  the  door,  and  went  straight  to  his  den ;  that 
wondrous  workshop,  where,  in  one  year,  1823,  when 
he  was  fifty-two,  he  wrote  Peveril  of  the  Peak, 
Quentin  Durward,  and  St.  Ronan's  Well,  besides 
much  else.  We  once  took  the  foremost  of  our  novel- 
ists, the  greatest,  we  would  say,  since  Scott,  into  this 
room,  and  could  not  but  mark  the  solemnizing  effect 
of  sitting  where  the  great  magician  sat  so  often  and 
so  long,  and  looking  out  upon  that  little  shabby  bit 
of  sky  and  that  back  green,  where  faithful  Camp 
lies.1 

He  sat  down  in  his  large  green  morocco  elbow-chair, 
drew  himself  close  to  his  table,  and  glowered  and 
gloomed  at  his  writing  apparatus,  "  a  very  handsome 
old  box,  richly  carved,  lined  with  crimson  velvet,  and 
containing  ink-bottles,  taper-stand,  etc.,  in  silver,  the 
whole  in  such  order,  that  it  might  have  come  from 
the  silversmith's  window  half  an  hour  before."  He 
took  out  his  paper,  then  starting  up  angrily,  said, 
"  '  Go  spin,  you  jade,  go  spin.'  No,  d —  it,  it  won't 
do, — 

'  My  spinnin'  wheel  is  auld  and  stiff, 
The  rock  o't  wunna  stand,  sir, 

1This  favorite  dog-  "died  about  January,  1809,  and  was 
buried  in  a  fine  moonlight  night  in  the  little  garden  behind  the 
house  in  Castle  Street.  My  Avife  tells  me  she  remembers  the 
whole  family  in  tears  about  the  grave  as  her  father  himself 
smoothed  the  turf  above  Camp,  -with,  the  saddest  face  she  had 
ever  seen.  He  had  been  engaged  to  dine  abroad  that  day,  but 
apologized,  on  account  of  the  death  of  '  a  dear  old  friend.'  "  — 
Lockhart's  Life  of  Scott. 


MARJORIE   FLEMING.  93 

To  keep  the  temper-pin  in  tiff 
Employs  ower  aft  my  hand,  sir. ' 

I  am  off  the  fang.1  I  can  make  nothing  of  Waverley 
to-day  ;  I  '11  awa'  to  Marjorie.  Come  wi'  me,  Maida, 
you  thief."  The  great  creature  rose  slowly,  and  the 
pair  were  off,  Scott  taking  a  maud  (a  plaid)  with 
him.  "  White  as  a  frosted  plum-cake,  by  jingo !  " 
said  he,  when  he  got  to  the  street.  Maida  gamboled 
and  whisked  among  the  snow,  and  her  master  strode 
across  to  Young  Street,  and  through  it  to  1  North 
Charlotte  Street,  to  the  house  of  his  dear  friend,  Mrs. 
William  Keith,  of  Corstorphine  Hill,  niece  of  Mrs. 
Keith,  of  Ravelston,  of  whom  he  said  at  her  death, 
eight  years  after,  "  Much  tradition,  and  that  of  the 
best,  has  died  with  this  excellent  old  lady,  one  of  the 
few  persons  whose  spirit  and  cleanliness  and  fresh- 
ness of  mind  and  body  made  old  age  lovely  and  de- 
sirable." 

Sir  Walter  was  in  that  house  almost  every  day, 
and  had  a  key,  so  in  he  and  the  hound  went,  shak- 
ing themselves  in  the  lobby.  "  Marjorie  !  Marjorie  !  " 
shouted  her  friend,  "  where  are  ye,  my  bonnie  wee 
croodlin  doo  ?  "  In  a  moment  a  bright,  eager  child 
of  seven  was  in  his  arms,  and  he  was  kissing  her  all 
over.  Out  came  Mrs.  Keith.  "  Come  yer  ways  in, 
Wattie."  "  No,  not  now.  I  am  going  to  take  Mar- 
jorie wi'  me,  and  you  may  come  to  your  tea  in  Dun- 

1  Applied  to  a  pump  when  it  is  dry,  and  its  valve  has  lost 
its  "  fang  ;  "  from  the  German  fangen,  to  hold. 


94  MARJORIE   FLEMING. 

can  Roy's  sedan,  and  bring  the  bairn  home  in  your 
lap.  "  Tak'  Marjorie,  and  it  on-ding  o"  snaw  !  "  said 
Mrs.  Keith.  He  said  to  himself,  "  On-ding,  —  that 's 
odd,  —  that  is  the  very  word."  "Hoot,  awa !  look 
here,"  and  he  displayed  the  corner  of  his  plaid, 
made  to  hold  lambs  (the  true  shepherd's  plaid,  con- 
sisting of  two  breadths  sewed  together,  and  uncut  at 
one  end,  making  a  poke  or  cul  de  sac).  "  Tak'  yer 
lamb,"  said  she,  laughing  at  the  contrivance,  and  so 
the  Pet  was  first  well  happit  up,  and  then  put,  laugh- 
ing silently,  into  the  plaid  neuk,  and  the  shepherd 
strode  off  with  his  lamb,  —  Maida  gamboling  through 
the  snow,  and  running  races  in  her  mirth. 

Did  n't  he  face  "  the  angry  airt,"  and  make  her 
bield  his  bosom,  and  into  his  own  room  with  her,  and 
lock  the  door,  and  out  with  the  warm,  rosy,  little 
wifie,  who  took  it  all  with  great  composure !  There 
the  two  remained  for  three  or  more  hours,  making 
the  house  ring  with  their  laughter ;  you  can  fancy 
the  big  man's  and  Maidie's  laugh.  Having  made 
the  fire  cheery,  he  set  her  down  in  his  ample  chair, 
and  standing  sheepishly  before  her,  began  to  say  his 
lesson,  which  happened  to  be,  — •  "  Ziccotty,  diccotty, 
dock,  the  mouse  ran  up  the  clock,  the  clock  struck 
wan,  down  the  mouse  ran,  ziccotty,  diccotty,  dock." 
This  done  repeatedly  till  she  was  pleased,  she  gave 
him  his  new  lesson,  gravely  and  slowly,  timing  it 
upon  her  small  fingers,  —  he  saying  it  after  her,  — 

"  Wonery,  twoery,  tickery,  seven; 
Alibi,  crackaby,  ten,  and  eleven ; 


MARJORIE   FLEMING.  95 

Pin,  pan,  musky,  dan ; 
Tweedle-um,  twoddle-um, 
Twenty-wan ;  eerie,  orie,  ourie, 
You,  are,  out." 

He  pretended  to  great  difficulty,  and  she  rebuked 
him  with  most  comical  gravity,  treating  him  as  a 
child.  He  used  to  say  that  when  he  came  to  Alibi 
Crackaby  he  broke  down,  and  Pin-Pan,  Musky- 
Dan,  Tweedle-um  Twoddle-um  made  him  roar  with 
laughter.  He  said  Musky-Dan  especially  was  be- 
yond endurance,  bringing  up  an  Irishman  and  his 
hat  fresh  from  the  Spice  Islands  and  odoriferous 
Ind  ;  she  getting  quite  bitter  in  her  displeasure  at 
his  ill-behavior  and  stupidness. 

Then  he  would  read  ballads  to  her  in  his  own 
glorious  way,  the  two  getting  wild  with  excitement 
over  Gil  Morrice  or  the  Baron  of  Smailholm  ;  and 
he  would  take  her  on  his  knee,  and  make  her  repeat 
Constance's  speeches  in  King  John,  till  he  swayed 
to  and  fro,  sobbing  his  fill.  Fancy  the  gifted  little 
creature,  like  one  possessed,  repeating,  — 

"  For  I  am  sick,  and  capable  of  fears, 

Oppressed  with  wrong,  and  therefore  full  of  fears ; 
A  widow,  husbandless,  subject  to  fears ; 
A  woman,  naturally  born  to  fears. 

"  If  thou  that  bidst  me  be  content,  wert  grim, 
Ugly  and  slanderous  to  thy  mother's  womb, 
Lame,  foolish,  crooked,  swart,  prodigious  "  — 

Or,  drawing  herself  up  "  to  the  height  of  her 
great  argument,"  — 


96  MARJORIE  FLEMING. 

"  I  will  instruct  my  sorrows  to  be  proud, 

For  grief  is  proud,  and  makes  his  owner  stout 
Here  I  and  sorrow  sit." 

Scott  used  to  say  that  he  was  amazed  at  her  power 
over  him,  saying  to  Mrs.  Keith,  "  She  's  the  most  ex- 
traordinary creature  I  ever  met  with,  and  her  repeat- 
ing of  Shakespeare  overpowers  me  as  nothing  else 
does." 

Thanks  to  the  unforgetting  sister  of  this  dear 
child,  who  has  much  of  the  sensibility  and  fun  of  her 
who  has  been  in  her  small  grave  these  fifty  and  more 
years,  we  have  now  before  us  the  letters  and  journals 
of  Pet  Marjorie,  —  before  us  lies  and  gleams  her 
rich  brown  hair,  bright  and  sunny  as  if  yesterday's, 
with  the  words  on  the  paper,  "  Cut  out  in  her  last 
illness,"  and  two  pictures  of  her  by  her  beloved  Isa- 
bella, whom  she  worshiped ;  there  are  the  faded  old 
scraps  of  paper,  hoarded  still,  over  which  her  warm 
breath  and  her  warm  little  heart  had  poured  them- 
selves ;  there  is  the  old  water-mark,  "  Lingard,  1808." 
The  two  portraits  are  very  like  each  other,  but  plainly 
done  at  different  times ;  it  is  a  chubby,  healthy  face, 
deep-set,  brooding  eyes,  as  eager  to  tell  what  is  going 
on  within  as  to  gather  in  all  the  glories  from  without ; 
quick  with  the  wonder  and  the  pride  of  life ;  they 
are  eyes  that  would  not  be  soon  satisfied  with  seeing ; 
eyes  that  would  devour  their  object,  and  yet  child- 
like and  fearless  ;  and  that  is  a  mouth  that  will  not 
be  soon  satisfied  with  love  ;  it  has  a  curious  likeness 
to  Scott's  own,  which  has  always  appeared  to  us  his 
sweetest,  most  mobile,  and  speaking  feature. 


MARJORIE   FLEMING.  97 

There  she  is,  looking  straight  at  us  as  she  did  at 
him,  —  fearless  and  full  of  love,  passionate,  wild, 
wilful,  fancy's  child.  One  cannot  look  at  it  with- 
out thinking  of  Wordsworth's  lines  on  poor  Hartley 
Coleridge  :  — 

' '  0  blessed  vision,  happy  child  ! 
Thou  art  so  exquisitely  wild, 
I  thought  of  thee  with  many  f  ears, 
Of  what  might  be  thy  lot  in  future  years. 
I  thought  of  times  when  Pain  might  be  thy  guest, 
Lord  of  thy  house  and  hospitality ; 
And  Grief,  uneasy  lover!   ne'er  at  rest, 
But  when  she  sat  within  the  touch  of  thee. 
Oh,  too  industrious  folly  ! 
Oh,  vain  and  causeless  melancholy  ! 
Nature  will  either  end  thee  quite, 
Or,  lengthening  out  thy  season  of  delight, 
Preserve  for  thee  by  individual  right, 
A  young  lamb's  heart  among  the  full-grown  flock." 

And  we  can  imagine  Scott,  when  holding  his  warm, 
plump  little  playfellow  in  his  arms,  repeating  that 
stately  friend's  lines  :  — • 

"  Loving  she  is,  and  tractable,  though  wild, 
And  innocence  hath  privilege  in  her, 
To  dignify  arch  looks  and  laughing  eyes, 
And  feats  of  cunning ;  and  the  pretty  round 
Of  trespasses,  affected  to  provoke 
Mock  chastisement  and  partnership  in  play. 
And,  as  a  fagot  sparkles  on  the  hearth, 
Not  less  if  unattended  and  alone, 
Than  when  both  young  and  old  sit  gathered  round, 
And  take  delight  in  its  activity, 
Even  so  this  happy  creature  of  herself 
Is  all-sufficient ;  solitude  to  her 


98  MABJORIE  FLEMING. 

Is  blithe  society ;  she  fills  the  air 
With  gladness  and  involuntary  songs." 

But  we  will  let  her  disclose  herself.  We  need 
hardly  say  that  all  this  is  true,  and  that  these  letters 
are  as  really  Marjorie's  as  was  this  light  brown  hair ; 
indeed,  you  could  as  easily  fabricate  the  one  as  the 
other. 

There  was  an  old  servant,  Jeanie  Robertson,  who- 
was  forty  years  In  her  grandfather's  family-  Marjorie 
Fleming,  or,  as  she  is  called  in  the  letters,  and  by 
Sir  Walter,  Maidie,  was  the  last  child  she  kept. 
Jeanie's  wages  never  exceeded  £3  a  year,  and,  when 
she  left  service,  she  had  saved  £40.  She  was  devot- 
edly attached  to  Maidie,  rather  despising  and  ill-using 
her  sister  Isabella,  —  a  beautiful  and  gentle  child. 
This  partiality  made  Maidie  apt  at  times  to  domineer 
over  Isabella.  "  I  mention  this  "  (writes  her  surviv- 
ing sister)  "  for  the  purpose  of  telling  you  an  instance 
of  Maidie's  generous  justice.  When  only  five  years 
old,  when  walking  in  Raith  grounds,  the  two  children 
had  run  on  before,  and  old  Jeanie  remembered  they 
might  come  too  near  a  dangerous  mill  -  lade.  She 
called  to  them  to  turn  back.  Maidie  heeded  her  not, 
rushed  all  the  faster  on,  and  fell,  and  would  have 
been  lost,  had  her  sister  not  pulled  her  back,  saving 
her  life,  but  tearing  her  clothes.  Jeanie  flew  on  Isa- 
bella to  '  give  it  her  '  for  spoiling  her  favorite's  dress  ; 
Maidie  rushed  in  between,  crying  out,  '  Pay  (whip) 
Maidjie  as  much  as  you  like,  and  I  '11  not  say  one 
word  ;  but  touch  Isy,  and  I  '11  roar  like  a  bull ! ' 


MARJORTE   FLEMING.  99 

Years  after  Maidie  was  resting  in  her  grave,  my 
mother  used  to  take  me  to  the  place,  and  told  the 
story  always  in  the  exact  same  words."  This  Jeanie 
must  have  been  a  character.  She  took  great  pride 
in  exhibiting  Maidie's  brother  William's  Calvinistic 
acquirements,  when  nineteen  months  old,  to  the  offi- 
cers of  a  militia  regiment  then  quartered  in  Kirk- 
caldy.  This  performance  was  so  amusing  that  it 
was  often  repeated,  and  the  little  theologian  was  pre- 
sented by  them  with  a  cap  and  feathers.  Jeanie's 
glory  was  "  putting  him  through  the  carritch  "  (cat- 
echism) in  broad  Scotch,  beginning  at  the  beginning 
with,  "  Wha  made  ye,  ma  bonnie  man  ?  "  For  the 
correctness  of  this  and  the  three  next  replies  Jeanie 
had  no  anxiety,  but  the  tone  changed  to  menace,  and 
the  closed  nleve  (fist)  was  shaken  in  the  child's 
face  as  she  demanded,  "  Of  what  are  you  made  ?  " 
"  DIRT,"  was  the  answer  uniformly  given.  "  Wull 
ye  never  learn  to  say  dust,  ye  thrawn  deevil  ?  "  with 
a  cuff  from  the  opened  hand,  was  the  as  inevitable 
rejoinder. 

Here  is  Maidie's  first  letter  before  she  was  six. 
The  spelling  unaltered,  and  there  are  no  '"  commoes." 

"  MY  DEAR  ISA,  —  I  now  sit  down  to  answer  all 
your  kind  and  beloved  letters  which  you  was  so  good 
as  to  write  to  me.  This  is  the  first  time  I  ever  wrote 
a  letter  in  my  Life.  There  are  a  great  many  Girls 
in  the  Square  and  they  cry  just  like  a  pig  when  we 
are  under  the  painfull  necessity  of  putting  it  to 
Death.  Miss  Potune  a  Lady  of  my  acquaintance 


100  MARJOR1E   FLEMING. 

praises  me  dreadfully.  I  repeated  something  out  of 
Dean  Swift,  and  she  said  I  was  fit  for  the  stage,  and 
you  may  think  I  was  primmed  up  with  majestick 
Pride,  but  upon  my  word  I  felt  myselfe  turn  a  little 
birsay  —  birsay  is  a  word  which  is  a  word  that  Wil- 
liam composed  which  is  as  you  may  suppose  a  little 
enraged.  This  horrid  fat  simpliton  says  that  my 
Aunt  is  beautifull  which  is  intirely  impossible  for 
that  is  not  her  nature." 

What  a  peppery  little  pen  we  wield  !  What  could 
that  have  been  out  of  the  Sardonic  Dean  ?  what 
other  child  of  that  age  would  have  used  "  beloved  " 
as  she  does  ?  This  power  of  affection,  this  faculty  of 
Seloving,  and  wild  hunger  to  be  beloved,  conies  out 
more  and  more.  She  periled  her  all  upon  it,  and  it 
may  have  been  as  well  —  we  know,  indeed,  that  it 
was  far  better  —  for  her  that  this  wealth  of  love  was 
so  soon  withdrawn  to  its  one  only  infinite  Giver  and 
Receiver.  This  must  have  been  the  law  of  her 
earthly  life.  Love  was  indeed  "  her  Lord  and 
King ; "  and  it  was  perhaps  well  for  her  that  she 
found  so  soon  that  her  and  our  only  Lord  and  King 
Himself  is  Love. 

Here  are  bits  from  her  Diary  at  Braehead :  — 
"  The  day  of  my  existence  here  has  been  delightful 
and  enchanting.  On  Saturday  I  expected  no  less 
than  three  well-made  Bucks  the  names  of  whom  is 
here  advertised.  Mr.  Geo.  Crakey  [Craigie],  and 
Wm.  Keith  and  Jn.  Keith  —  the  first  is  the  funniest 
of  every  one  of  them.  Mr.  Crakey  and  [I]  walked  to 


MARJORIE    FLEMING.  101 

Crakyhall  [Craigiehall]  hand  in  hand  in  Innocence 
and  matitation  [meditation]  sweet  thinking  on  the 
kind  love  which  flows  in  our  tenderhearted  mind 
which  is  overflowing  with  majestic  pleasure  no  one 
was  ever  so  polite  to  me  in  the  hole  state  of  my  exist- 
ence. Mr.  Craky  you  must  know  is  a  great  Buck 
and  pretty  good-looking. 

"  I  am  at  Ravelston  enjoying  nature's  fresh  air. 
The  birds  are  singing  sweetly  —  the  calf  doth  frisk 
and  nature  shows  her  glorious  face." 

Here  is  a  confession :  —  "I  confess  I  have  been 
very  more  like  a  little  young  divil  than  a  creature  for 
when  Isabella  went  up  stairs  to  teach  me  religion  and 
my  multiplication  and  to  be  good  and  all  my  other 
lessons  I  stamped  with  my  foot  and  threw  my  new 
hat  which  she  had  made  on  the  ground  and  was  sulky 
and  was  dreadfully  passionate,  but  she  never  whiped 
me  but  said  Marjory  go  into  another  room  and  think 
what  a  great  crime  you  are  committing  letting  your 
temper  git  the  better  of  you.  But  I  went  so  sulkily 
that  the  Devil  got  the  better  of  me  but  she  never 
never  never  whips  me  so  that  I  think  I  would  be  the 
better  of  it  and  the  next  time  that  I  behave  ill  I 
think  she  should  do  it  for  she  never  does  it.  ... 
Isabella  has  given  me  praise  for  checking  my  tem- 
per for  I  was  sulky  even  when  she  was  kneeling  an 
hole  hour  teaching  me  to  write." 

Our  poor  little  wifie,  she  has  no  doubts  of  the  per- 
sonality of  the  Devil !  "  Yesterday  I  behave  ex- 
tremely ill  in  God's  most  holy  church  for  I  would 


102  MARJORIE   FLEMING. 

never  attend  myself  nor  let  Isabella  attend  which  was 
a  great  crime  for  she  often,  often  tells  me  that  when 
to  or  three  are  geathered  together  God  is  in  the  midst 
of  them,  and  it  was  the  very  same  Divil  that  tempted 
Job  that  tempted  me  I  am  sure  ;  but  he  resisted  Sa- 
tan though  he  had  boils  and  many  many  other  misfor- 
tunes which  I  have  escaped.  ...  I  am  now  going 
to  tell  you  the  horible  and  wretched  plaege  [plague] 
that  my  multiplication  gives  me  you  can't  conceive 
it  the  most  Devilish  thing  is  8  times  8  and  7  times  7 
it  is  what  nature  itself  cant  endure." 

This  is  delicious  ;  and  what  harm  is  there  in  her 
"  Devilish  "  ?  it  is  strong  language  merely  ;  even  old 
Rowland  Hill  used  to  say  "  he  grudged  the  Devil 
those  rough  and  ready  words."  "I  walked  to  that 
delightful  place  Crakyhall  with  a  delightful  young 
man  beloved  by  all  his  friends  especially  by  me  his 
loveress,  but  I  must  not  talk  any  more  about  him 
for  Isa  said  it  is  not  proper  for  to  speak  of  gentalmen 
but  I  will  never  forget  him !  .  .  .  I  am  very  very 
glad  that  satan  has  not  given  me  boils  and  many 
other  misfortunes  —  In  the  holy  bible  these  words 
are  written  that  the  Devil  goes  like  a  roaring  lyon  in 
search  of  his  pray  but  the  lord  lets  us  escape  from 
him  but  we  "  (pauvre  petite!)  "do  not  strive  with 
this  awfull  Spirit.  .  .  .  To-day  I  pronunced  a  word 
which  should  never  come  out  of  a  lady's  lips  it  was 
that  I  called  John  a  Impudent  Bitch.  I  will  tell  you 
what  I  think  made  me  in  so  bad  a  humor  is  I  got  one 
or  two  of  that  bad  bad  sina  [senna]  tea  to-day,"  —  a 


MARJORIE    FLEMING.  103 

better  excuse  for  bad  humor  and  bad  language  than 
most. 

She  has  been  reading  the  Book  of  Esther :  "  It 
was  a  dreadful  thing  that  Haman  was  hanged  on  the 
very  gallows  which  he  had  prepared  for  Mordeca  to 
hang  him  and  his  ten  sons  thereon  and  it  was  very 
wrong  and  cruel  to  hang  his  sons  for  they  did  not 
commit  the  crime  ;  but  then  Jesus  was  not  then  come 
to  teach  us  to  be  merciful."  This  is  wise  and  beauti- 
ful, —  has  upon  it  the  very  dew  of  youth  and  of  holi- 
ness. Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  and  sucklings  He 
perfects  his  praise. 

"  This  is  Saturday  and  I  am  very  glad  of  it  because 
I  have  play  half  the  Day  and  I  get  money  too  but 
alas  I  owe  Isabella  4  pence  for  I  am  finned  2  pence 
whenever  I  bite  my  nails.  Isabella  is  teaching  me  to 
make  simme  colings  nots  of  interrigations  peorids 
commoes,  etc.  .  .  .  As  this  is  Sunday  I  will  meditate 
upon  Senciable  and  Religious  subjects.  First  I  should 
be  very  thankful  I  am  not  a  begger." 

This  amount  of  meditation  and  thankfulness  seems 
to  have  been  all  she  was  able  for. 

"  I  am  going  to-morrow  to  a  delightfull  place,  Brae- 
head  by  name,  belonging  to  Mrs.  Crraford,  where 
there  is  ducks  cocks  hens  bubblyjocks  2  dogs  2  cats 
and  swine  which  is  delightful.  I  think  it  is  shocking 
to  think  that  the  dog  and  cat  should  bear  them  "  (this 
is  a  meditation  physiological),  "  and  they  are  drowned 
after  all.  I  would  rather  have  a  man-dog  than  a  wo- 
man-dog, because  they  do  not  bear  like  women-dogs ; 


104  MARJORIE   FLEMING. 

it  is  a  hard  ease  —  it  is  shocking.  I  cam  here  to  en- 
joy natures  delightful  breath  it  is  sweeter  than  a  fial 
[phial  J  of  rose  oil." 

Braehead  is  the  farm  the  historical  Jock  Howison 
asked  and  got  from  our  gay  James  the  Fifth,  "  the 
gudeman  o'  Ballengiech,"  as  a  reward  for  the  services 
of  his  flail  when  the  King  had  the  worst  of  it  at  Cra- 
mond  Brig  with  the  gypsies.  The  farm  is  unchanged 
in  size  from  that  time,  and  still  in  the  unbroken  line 
of  the  ready  and  victorious  thrasher.  Braehead  is 
held  on  the  condition  of  the  possessor  being  ready  to 
present  the  King  with  a  ewer  and  basin  to  wash  his 
hands,  Jock  having  done  this  for  his  unknown  king 
after  the  splore,  and  when  George  the  Fourth  came 
to  Edinburgh  this  ceremony  was  performed  in  silver 
at  Holyrood.  It  is  a  lovely  neuk  this  Braehead,  pre- 
served almost  as  it  was  two  hundred  years  ago. 
"  Lot  and  his  wife,"  mentioned  by  Maidie,  —  two 
quaintly  cropped  yew-trees  —  still  thrive  ;  the  burn 
runs  as  it  did  in  her  time,  and  sings  the  same  quiet 
tune,  —  as  much  the  same  and  as  different  as  Now 
and  Then,  The  house  full  of  old  family  relics  and 
pictures,  the  sun  shining  on  them  through  the  small 
deep  windows  with  their  plate  glass  ;  and  there,  blink- 
ing at  the  sun,  and  ch altering  contentedly,  is  a  parrot, 
that  might,  for  its  looks  of  eld,  have  been  in  the  ark, 
and  domineered  over  and  deaved  the  dove.  Every- 
thing about  the  place  is  old  and  fresh. 

This  is  beautiful :  —  "  I  am  very  sorry  to  say  that 
I  forgot  God  —  that  is  to  say  I  forgot  to  pray  to-day 


MARJORIE   FLEMING.  105 

and  Isabella  told  me  that  I  should  be  thankful  that 
God  did  not  forget  me  —  if  he  did,  O  what  become 
of  me  if  I  was  in  danger  and  God  not  friends  with  me 
—  I  must  go  to  unquenchable  fire  and  if  I  was 
tempted  to  sin  —  how  could  I  resist  it  O  no  I  will 
never  do  it  again  —  no  no  —  if  I  can  help  it." 
(Canny  wee  wifie  !)  "  My  religion  is  greatly  falling 
off  because  I  dont  pray  with  so  much  attention  when 
I  am  saying  my  prayers,  and  my  character  is  lost 
among  the  Braehead  people.  I  hope  I  will  be 
religious  again  —  but  as  for  regaining  my  .character 
I  despare  for  it."  (Poor  little  "  habit  and  repute !  ") 

Her  temper,  her  passion,  and  her  "  badness  "  are 
almost  daily  confessed  and  deplored  :  —  "I  will  never 
again  trust  to  my  own  power,  for  I  see  that  I,  cannot 
be  good  without  God's  assistance  —  I  will  not  trust  in 
my  own  selfe,  and  Isa's  health  will  be  quite  ruined 
by  me  —  it  will  indeed."  "  Isa  has  giving  me  advice, 
which  is,  that  when  I  feal  Satan  beginning  to  tempt 
me,  that  I  flea  him  and  he  would  flea  me."  "  Remorse 
is  the  worst  thing  to  bear,  and  I  am  afraid  that  I  will 
fall  a  marter  to  it." 

Poor  dear  little  sinner !  —  Here  comes  the  world 
again :  "In  my  travels  I  met  with  a  handsome  lad 
named  Charles  Balfour  Esq.,  and  from  him  I  got 
of ers  of  mjtrage  —  offers  of  marage,  did  I  say  ?  Nay 
plenty  heard  me."  A  fine  scent  for  "breach  of 
promise !  " 

This  is  abrupt  and  strong :  "  The  Divil  is  curced 
and  all  works.  'T  is  a  fine  work  Newton  on  the  pro- 


106  MARJORIE   FLEMING. 

fecies.  I  wonder  if  there  is  another  book  of  poems 
comes  near  the  Bible.  The  Divil  always  girns  at  the 
sight  of  the  Bible."  "  Miss  Potune  "  (her  "  simpliton  " 
friend)  "is  very  fat;  she  pretends  to  be  very  learned. 
She  says  she  saw  a  stone  that  dropt  from  the  skies ; 
but  she  is  a  good  Christian."  Here  come  her  views 
on  church  government :  —  "  An  Annibabtist  is  a  thing 
I  am  not  a  member  of  —  I  am  a  Pisplekan  (Episco- 
palian) just  now,  and  "  (O  you  little  Laodicean  and 
Latitudinarian  1)  "  a  Prisbeteran  at  Kirkcaldy  !  "  — 
(Blandula  !  Vagula  !  cesium  et  animum  mutas  quce 
tra?is  mare  (i.  e.  trans  Bodotriam)  curris  /)  —  "  my 
native  town."  "  Sentiment  is  not  what  I  am  ac- 
quainted with  as  yet,  though  I  wish  it,  and  should 
like  tq practise  it."  (!)  "I  wish  I  had  a  great,  great 
deal  of  gratitude  in  my  heart,  in  all  my  body." 
"There  is  a  new  novel  published,  named  Self- 
Control "  (Mrs.  Brunton's)  —  "a  very  good  maxim 
forsooth !  "  This  is  shocking :  "  Yesterday  a  marrade 
man,  named  Mr.  John  Balfour,  Esq.,  offered  to  kiss 
me,  and  offered  to  marry  me,  though  the  man  "  (a 
fine  directness  this  !)  "  was  espused,  and  his  wife  was 
present  and  said  he  must  ask  her  permission  ;  but  he 
did  not.  I  think  he  was  ashamed  and  confounded 
before  3  gentelman  —  Mr.  Jobson  and  2  Mr.  Kings." 
"Mr.  Banester's  "  [Bannister's]  "  Budjet^e  to-night; 
I  hope  it  will  be  a  good  one.  A  great  many  authors 
have  expressed  themselves  too  sentimentally."  You 
are  right,  Marjorie.  "  A  Mr.  Burns  writes  a  beauti- 
ful song  on  Mr.  Cunhaming,  whose  wife  desarted  him 


MARJORIE   FLEMING.  107 

—  truly  it  is  a  most  beautiful  one."  "  I  like  to  read 
the  Fabulous  historys,  about  the  histerys  of  Robin, 
Dickey,  flapsay,  and  Peccay,  and  it  is  very  amusing, 
for  some  were  good  birds  and  others  bad,  but  Peccay 
was  the  most  dutiful  and  obedient  to  her  parients." 
"  Thomson  is  a  beautiful  author,  and  Pope,  but  noth- 
ing to  Shakespear,  of  which  I  have  a  little  knolege. 
Macbeth  is  a  pretty  composition,  but  awful  one." 
"The  Newgate  Calender  is  very  instructive"  (!) 
"  A  sailor  called  here  to  say  farewell ;  it  must  be 
dreadful  to  leave  his  native  country  when  he  might 
get  a  wife ;  or  perhaps  me,  for  I  love  him  very  much. 
But  O  I  forgot,  Isabella  forbid  me  to  speak  abdut 
love."  This  antiphlogistic  regimen  and  lesson  is  ill  to 
learn  by  our  Maidie,  for  here  she  sins  again  :  "  Love 
is  a  very  papithatick  thing  "  (it  is  almost  a  pity  to  cor- 
rect this  into  pathetic),  "  as  well  as  troublesome  and 
tiresome  — but  0  Isabella  forbid  me  to  speak  of  it." 
Here  are  her  reflections  on  a  pine-apple  :  "  I  think 
the  price  of  a  pine-apple  is  very  dear  :  it  is  a  whole 
bright  goulden  guinea,  that  might  have  sustained  a 
poor  family."  Here  is  a  new  vernal  simile  :  "  The 
hedges  are  sprouting  like  chicks  from  the  eggs  when 
they  are  newly  hatched  or,  as  the  vulgar  say,  clacked" 
u  Doctor  Swift's  works  are  very  funny ;  I  got  some 
of  them  by  heart."  "  Moreheads  sermons  are  I  hear 
much  praised,  but  I  never  read  sermons  of  any  kind  ; 
but  I  read  novelettes  and  my  Bible,  and  I  never  for- 
get it,  or  my  prayers."  Bravo  Marjorie  ! 

She   seems    now,   when    still   about   six,    to   have 
broken  out  into  song  :  — 


108  MARJORIE   FLEMING. 

"  EPHIBOL  (EPIGRAM  OK  EPITAPH  —  WHO  KNOWS  WHICH?) 
ON  MY  DEAR  LOVE  ISABELLA. 

"Here  lies  sweet  Isabell  in  bed, 

With  a  night-cap  on  her  head  ; 

Her  skin  is  soft,  her  face  is  fair, 
And  she  has  very  pretty  hair ; 

She  and  I  in  bed  lies  nice, 

And  undisturbed  by  rats  or  mice  ; 

She  is  disgusted  with  Mr.  Worgan, 

Though  he  plays  upon  the  organ. 

Her  nails  are  neat,  her  teeth  are  white, 

Her  eyes  are  very,  very  bright, 

In  a  conspicuous  town  she  lives, 

And  to  the  poor  her  money  gives  : 

Here  ends  sweet  Isabella's  story, 
And  may  it  be  much  to  her  glory." 

Here  are  some  bits  at  random  :  — 

"  Of  summer  I  am  very  fond, 
And  love  to  bathe  into  a  pond  ; 
The  look  of  sunshine  dies  away, 
And  will  not  let  me  out  to  play ; 
I  love  the  morning's  sun  to  spy 
Glittering  through  the  casement's  eye, 
The  rays  of  light  are  very  sweet, 
And  puts  away  the  taste  of  meat ; 
The  balmy  breeze  comes  down  from  heaven, 
And  makes  us  like  for  to  be  living." 

"  The  casawaiy  is  an  curious  bird,  and  so  is  the 
gigantic  crane,  and  the  pelican  of  the  wilderness, 
whose  mouth  holds  a  bucket  of  fish  and  water. 
Fighting  is  what  ladies  is  not  qualyfied  for,  they 
would  not  make  a  good  figure  in  battle  or  in  a  duel. 
Alas !  we  females  are  of  little  use  to  our  country. 


MARJORIE   FLEMING.  109 

The  history  of  all  the  malcontents  as  ever  was  hanged 
is  amusing."  Still  harping  on  the  Neivgate  Cal- 
endar ! 

"  Braehead  is  extremely  pleasant  to  me  by  the 
companie  of  swine,  geese,  cocks,  etc.,  and  they  are 
the  delight  of  my  soul." 

"  I  am  going  to  tell  you  of  a  melancholy  story.  A 
young  turkie  of  2  or  3  months  old,  would  you  be- 
lieve it,  the  father  broke  its  leg,  and  he  killed  an- 
other!  I  think  he  ought  to  be  transported  or 
hanged." 

"  Queen  Street  is  a  very  gay  one,  and  so  is  Princes 
Street,  for  all  the  lads  and  lasses,  besides  bucks  and 
beggars,  parade  there." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  a  play  very  much,  for  I 
never  saw  one  in  all  my  life,  and  don't  believe  I  ever 
shall ;  but  I  hope  I  can  be  content  without  going  to 
one.  I  can  be  quite  happy  without  my  desire  being 
granted." 

"  Some  days  ago  Isabella  had  a  terrible  fit  of  the 
toothake,  and  she  walked  with  a  long  night-shift  at 
dead  of  night  like  a  ghost,  and  I  thought  she  was 
one.  She  prayed  for  nature 's  sweet  restorer  — 
balmy  sleep  —  but  did  not  get  it  —  a  ghostly  figure 
indeed  she  was,  enough  to  make  a  saint  tremble.  It 
made  me  quiver  and  shake  from  top  to  toe.  Super- 
stition is  a  very  mean  thing,  and  should  be  despised 
and  shunned." 

Here  is  her  weakness  and  her  strength  again  :  — 
"  In  the  love-novels  all  the  heroines  are  very  desper- 


110  MARJORIE  FLEMING. 

ate.  Isabella  will  not  allow  me  to  speak  about  lov- 
ers and  heroins,  and  'tis  too  refined  for  my  taste." 
"  Miss  Egward's  [Edgeworth's]  tails  are  very  good, 
particularly  some  that  are  very  much  adapted  for 
youth  (!)  as  Las,  Laurance  and  Tarelton,  False 
Keys,  etc.  etc." 

"  Tom  (Tones  and  Grey's  Elegey  in  a  country 
churchyard  are  both  excellent,  and  much  spoke  of 
by  both  sex,  particularly  by  the  men."  Are  our 
Marjories  now-a-days  better  or  worse  because  they 
cannot  read  Tom  Jones  unharmed  ?  More  better 
than  worse  ;  but  who  among  them  can  repeat  Gray's 
Lines  on  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  College  as 
could  our  Maidie  ? 

Here  is  some  more  of  her  prattle :  "I  went  into 
Isabella's  bed  to  make  her  smile  like  the  Genius 
Demedicus  "  (the  Venus  de  Medicis)  "or  the  statute 
in  an  ancient  Greece,  but  she  fell  asleep  in  my  very 
face,  at  which  my  anger  broke  forth,  so  that  I  awoke 
her  from  a  comfortable  nap.  All  was  now  hushed  up 
again,  but  again  my  anger  burst  forth  at  her  biding 
me  get  up." 

She  begins  thus  loftily,  — 

"  Death  the  righteous  love  to  see, 
But  from  it  doth  the  wicked  flee." 

Then  suddenly  breaks  off  (as  if  with  laughter),  — 
"  I  am  sure  they  fly  as  fast  as  their  legs  can  carry  them!  " 

"  There  is  a  thing  I  love  to  see, 
That  is  out  monkey  catch  a  flee." 


MARJORIE   FLEMING.  Ill 

"  I  love  in  Isa's  bed  to  lie, 
Oh,  such  a  joy  and  luxury  ! 
The  bottom  of  the  bed  I  sleep, 
And  with  great  care  within  I  creep  ; 
Oft  I  embrace  her  feet  of  lillys, 
But  she  has  gottni  all  the  pillys. 
Her  neck  I  never  can  embrace, 
But  I  do  hug  her  feet  in  place." 

How  childish  and  yet  how  strong  and  free  is  her 
use  of  words !  —  "I  lay  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  be- 
cause Isabella  said  I  disturbed  her  by  continial  fight- 
ing and  kicking,  but  I  was  very  dull,  and  continially 
at  work  reading  the  Arabian  Nights,  which  I  could 
not  have  done  if  I  had  slept  at  the  top.  I  am  read- 
ing the  Mysteries  of  Udolpho.  I  am  much  inter- 
ested in  the  fate  of  poor,  poor  Emily." 

Here  is  one  of  her  swains  :  — 

"  Very  soft  and  white  his  cheeks, 
His  hair  is  red,  and  grey  his  breeks ; 
His  tooth  is  like  the  daisy  fair, 
His  only  fault  is  in  hia  hair." 

This  is  a  higher  flight :  — 

"  DEDICATED   TO  MRS.  H.  CRAWFORD   BY  THE  AUTHOR,  M.  V. 

"  Three  turkeys  fair  their  last  have  breathed, 
And  now  this  world  forever  leaved ; 
Their  father,  and  their  mother  too, 
They  sigh  and  weep  as  well  as  you ; 
Indeed,  the  rats  their  bones  have  crunched, 
Into  eternity  theire  laanched. 
A  direful  death  indeed  they  had, 
As  wad  put  any  parent  mad  ; 


112  MARJORIE   FLEMING. 

But  she  -was  more  than  usual  calm, 
She  did  not  give  a  single  dam." 

This  last  word  is  saved  from  all  sin  by  its  tender 
age,  not  to  speak  of  the  want  of  the  n.  We  fear 
"  she  "  is  the  abandoned  mother,  in  spite  of  her  pre- 
vious sighs  and  tears. 

"  Isabella  says  when  we  pray  we  should  pray  fer- 
vently, and  not  rattel  over  a  prayer  —  for  that  we 
are  kneeling  at  the  footstool  of  our  Lord  and  Creator, 
who  saves  us  from  eternal  damnation,  and  from  un- 
questionable fire  and  brimston." 

She  has  a  long  poem  on  Mary  Queen  of  Scots :  — 

"  Queen  Mary  was  much  loved  by  all, 
Both  by  the  great  and  by  the  small, 
But  hark !  her  soul  to  heaven  doth  rise ! 
And  I  suppose  she  has  gained  a  prize  — 
For  I  do  think  she  would  not  go 
Into  the  awful  place  below  ; 
There  is  a  thing  that  I  must  tell, 
Elizabeth  went  to  fire  and  hell ; 
He  who  would  teach  her  to  be  civil, 
It  must  be  her  great  friend  the  devil !  " 

She  hits  off  Darnley  well :  — 

"  A  noble's  son,  a  handsome  lad, 
By  some  queer  way  or  other,  had 
Got  quite  the  better  of  her  heart, 
With  him  she  always  talked  apart ; 
Silly  he  was,  but  very  fair, 
A  greater  buck  was  not  found  there." 

"  By  some  queer  way  or  other  "  ;  is  not  this  the 
general  case  and  the  mystery,  young  ladies  and  gen- 


MARJORIE   FLEMING.  113 

tlemen  ?      Goethe's  doctrine  of  "  elective  affinities  " 
discovered  by  our  Pet  Maidie. 

"  SONNET    TO  A  MONKEY. 

"  O  lively,  O  most  charming1  pug 
Thy  graceful  air,  and  heavenly  mug ; 
The  beauties  of  his  mind  do  shine, 
And  every  bit  is  shaped  and  fine. 
Your  teeth  are  whiter  than  the  snow, 
Your  a  great  buck,  your  a  great  beau  ; 
Your  eyes  are  of  so  nice  a  shape, 
More  like  a  Christian's  than  an  ape  ; 
Your  cheek  is  like  the  rose's  blume, 
Your  hair  is  like  the  raven's  plume  ; 
His  nose's  cast  is  of  the  Roman, 
He  is  a  very  pretty  woman. 
I  could  not  get  a  rhyme  for  Roman, 
So  was  obliged  to  call  him  woman." 

This  last  joke  is  good.  She  repeats  it  when  writ- 
ing of  James  the  Second  being  killed  at  Roxburgh :  — 

"  He  was  killed  by  a  cannon  splinter, 
Quite  in  the  middle  of  the  winter ; 
Perhaps  it  AVRS  not  at  that  time, 
But  I  can  get  no  other  rhyme  !  " 

Here  is  one  of  her  last  letters,  dated  Kirkcaldy, 
12th  October,  1811.  You  can  see  how  her  nature  is 
deepening  and  enriching :  —  "  MY  DEAR  MOTHER,  — 
You  will  think  that  I  entirely  forget  you  but  I  assure 
you  that  you  are  greatly  mistaken.  I  think  of  you 
always  and  often  sigh  to  think  of  the  distance  be- 
tween us  two  loving  creatures  of  nature.  We  have 
regular  hours  for  all  our  occupations  first  at  7  o'clock 


114  MAR.IORIE  FLEMING. 

we  go  to  the  dancing  and  come  home  at  8  we  then 
read  our  Bible  and  get  our  repeating  and  then  play 
till  ten  then  we  get  our  music  till  11  when  we  get  our 
writing  and  accounts  we  sew  from  12  till  1  after 
which  I  get  my  gramer  and  then  work  till  fiVe.  At 
7  we  come  and  knit  till  8  when  we  dont  go  to  the 
dancing.  This  is  an  exact  description.  I  must  take 
a  hasty  farewell  to  her  whom  I  love,  reverence  and 
doat  on  and  who  I  hope  thinks  the  same  of 

"  MARJORY  FLEMING. 

"  P.  S.  —  An  old  pack  of  cards  (!)  would  be  very 
exeptible." 

This  other  is  a  month  earlier :  —  "  MY  DEAR  LIT- 
TLE MAMA,  —  I  was  truly  happy  to  hear  that  you  were 
all  well.  We  are  surrounded  with  measles  at  present 
on  every  side,  for  the  Herons  got  it,  and  Isabella 
Heron  was  near  Death's  Door,  and  one  night  her 
father  lifted  her  out  of  bed,  and  she  fell  down  as 
they  thought  lifeless.  Mr.  Heron  said,  '  That  lassie  's 
deed  noo'  —  '  I  'm  no  deed  yet.'  She  then  threw  up 
a  big  worm  nine  inches  and  a  half  long.  I  have  be- 
gun dancing,  but  am  not  very  fond  of  it,  for  the  boys 
strikes  and  mocks  me.  —  I  have  been  another  night 
at  the  dancing ;  I  like  it  better.  I  will  write  to  you 
as  often  as  I  can ;  but  I  am  afraid  not  every  week.  / 
long  for  you  with  the  longings  of  a  child  to  embrace 
you  —  to  fold  you  in  my  arms.  I  respect  you  with 
all  the  respect  due  to  a  mother.  You  dont  know 
how  I  love  you.  So  I  shall  remain,  your  loving 
child  —  M.  FLEMING." 


MARJORIE   FLEMING.  115 

What  rich  involution  of  love  in  the  words  marked  ! 
Here  are  some  lines  to  her  beloved  Isabella,  in  July, 
1811:  — 

"  There  is  a  thing  that  I  do  want, 
With  you  these  beauteous  walks  to  haunt, 
We  would  be  happy  if  you  would 
Try  to  come  over  if  you  could. 
Then  I  would  all  quite  happy  be 
Now  and  for  all  eternity. 
My  mother  is  so  very  sweet, 
And  checks  my  appetite  to  eat  ; 
My  father  shows  us  what  to  do  ; 
But  O  I  'm  sure  that  I  want  you. 
I  have  no  more  of  poetry ; 
O  Isa  do  remember  me, 
And  try  to  love  your  Marjory." 

In  a  letter  from  "  Isa  "  to 

"Miss  Muff  Maidie  Marjory  Fleming, 
favored  by  Rare  Rear-Admiral  Fleming,'' 

she  says  :  "  I  long  much  to  see  you,  and  talk  over  all 
our  stories  together,  and  to  hear  you  read  and  repeat. 
I  am  pining  for  my  old  friend  Cesario,  and  poor 
Lear,  and  wicked  Richard.  How  is  the  dear  Multi- 
plication table  going  on?  are  you  still  as  much  at- 
tached to  9  times  9  as  you  used  to  be  ?  " 

But  this  dainty,  bright  thing  is  about  to  flee,  —  to 
come  "  quick  to  confusion."  The  measles  she  writes 
of  seized  her,  and  she  died  on  the  19th  of  December, 
1811.  The  day  before  her  death,  Sunday,  she  sat  up 
in  bed,  worn  and  thin,  her  eye  gleaming  as  with  the 
light  of  a  coming  world,  and  with  a  tremulous,  old 


116  MARJORIE   FLEMING. 

voice  repeated  the  following  lines  by  Burns,  —  heavy 
with  the  shadow  of  death,  and  lit  with  the  fantasy  of 
the  judgment-seat,  —  the  publican's  prayer  in  para- 
phrase :  — 

"  Why  am  I  loth  to  leave  this  earthly  scene  ? 

Have  I  so  found  it  full  of  pleasing  charms  ? 
Some  drops  of  joy,  with  draughts  of  ill  between, 
Some  gleams  of  sunshine  'mid  renewing  storms. 
Is  it  departing  pangs  my  soul  alarms  ? 
Or  death's  unlovely,  dreary,  dark  abode  ? 

For  guilt,  for  GUILT  my  terrors  are  in  anus ; 
I  tremble  to  approach  an  angry  God, 
And  justly  smart  beneath  his  sin-avenging  rod. 

"  Fain  would  I  say,  forgive  my  foul  offense, 

Fain  promise  never  more  to  disobey  ; 
But  should  my  Author  health  again  dispense, 
Again  I  might  forsake  fair  virtue's  way, 
Again  in  folly's  path  might  go  astray, 
Again  exalt  the  brute  and  sink  the  man. 

Then  how  should  I  for  heavenly  mercy  pray, 
Who  act  so  counter  heavenly  mercy's  plan, 
Who  sin  so  oft  have  mourned,  yet  to  temptation  ran  ? 

"  O  thou  great  Governor  of  all  below, 

If  I  might  dare  a  lifted  eye  to  thee, 
Thy  nod  can  make  the  tempest  cease  to  blow, 
And  still  the  tumult  of  the  raging  sea ; 
With  that  controlling  power  assist  even  me 
Those  headstrong  furious  passions  to  confine, 

For  all  unfit  I  feel  my  powers  to  be 
To  rule  their  torrent  in  the  allowed  line ; 
O  aid  me  with  thy  help,  OMNIPOTENCE  DIVINE." 


It  is  more  affecting  than  we  care  to  say  to  read  her 


MARJORIE   FLEMING.  117 

mother's  and  Isabella  Keith's  letters  written  imme- 
diately after  her  death.  Old  and  withered,  tattered 
and  pale,  they  are  now :  but  when  you  read  them, 
how  quick,  how  throbbing  with  life  and  love !  how 
rich  in  that  language  of  affection  which  only  women 
and  Shakespeare,  and  Luther  can  use,  —  that  power 
of  detaining  the  soul  over  the  beloved  object  and  its 
loss. 

'"  K.  Philip  to  Constance.     You  are  as  fond  of  grief  as  of  your 
child. 

"  Const.  Grief  fills  the  room  up  of  my  absent  child, 

Lies  ill  his  bed,  walks  up  and  down  with  me  ; 
Puts  on  his  pretty  looks,  repeats  his  words, 
Remembers  me  of  all  his  gracious  parts, 
Stuffs  out  his  vacant  garments  with  his  f onn. 
Then  I  have  reason  to  be  fond  of  grief." 

What  variations  cannot  love  play  on  this  one 
string ! 

In  her  first  letter  to  Miss  Keith,  Mrs.  Fleming 
says  of  her  dead  Maidie  :  —  "  Never  did  I  behold  so 
beautiful  an  object.  It  resembled  the  finest  wax- 
work. There  was  in  the  countenance  an  expression 
of  sweetness  and  serenity  which  seemed  to  indicate 
that  the  pure  spirit  had  anticipated  the  joys  of 
heaven  ere  it  quitted  the  mortal  frame.  To  tell  you 
what  your  Maidie  said  of  you  would  fill  volumes  ;  for 
you  were  the  constant  theme  of  her  discourse,  the  sub- 
ject of  her  thoughts,  and  ruler  of  her  actions.  The 
last  time  she  mentioned  you  was  a  few  hours  before 
all  sense  save  that  of  suffering  was  suspended,  when 


118  MARJORIE   FLEMING. 

she  said  to  Dr.  Johnstone,  '  If  you  will  let  me  out 
at  the  New  Year,  I  will  be  quite  contented.'  I 
asked  what  made  her  so  anxious  to  get  out  then.  '  I 
want  to  purchase  a  New  Year's  gift  for  Isa  Keith 
with  the  sixpence  you  gave  me  for  being  patient  in 
the  measles  ;  and  I  would  like  to  choose  it  myself.' 
I  do  not  remember  her  speaking  afterwards,  except 
to  complain  of  her  head,  till  just  before  she  expired, 
when  she  articulated,  '  O  mother !  mother  ! ' ' 

Do  we  make  too  much  of  this  little  child,  who  has 
been  in  her  grave  in  Abbotshall  Kirkyard  these  fifty 
and  more  years  '(  We  may  of  her  cleverness,  —  not 
of  her  affectionateness,  her  nature.  What  a  picture 
the  animosa  infans  gives  us  of  herself,  her  vivacity, 
her  passionateness,  her  precocious  love-making,  her 
passion  for  nature,  for  swine,  for  all  living  things, 
her  reading,  her  turn  for  expression,  her  satire,  her 
frankness,  her  little  sins  and  rages,  her  great  repent- 
ances !  We  don't  wonder  Walter  Scott  carried  her 
off  in  the  neuk  of  his  plaid,  and  played  himself  with 
her  for  hours. 

The  year  before  she  died,  when  in  Edinburgh,  she 
was  at  a  Twelfth  Night  supper  at  Scott's,  in  Castle 
Street.  The  company  had  all  come,  —  all  but  Mar- 
jorie.  Scott's  familiars,  whom  we  all  know,  were 
there, — all  were  come  but  Marjorie ;  and  all  were 
dull  because  Scott  was  dull.  "  Where  's  that  bairn  ? 
what  can  have  come  over  her  ?  I  '11  go  myself  and 
see."  And  he  was  getting  up,  and  would  have  gone  ; 


MARJORIE   FLEMING.  119 

when  the  bell  rang,  and  in  came  Duncan  Roy  and 
his  henchman  Tougald,  with  the  sedan  chair,  which 
was  brought  right  into  the  lobby,  and  its  top  raised. 
And  there,  in  its  darkness  and  dingy  old  cloth,  sat 
Maidie  in  white,  her  eyes  gleaming,  and  Scott  bend- 
ing over  her  in  ecstasy,  — "  hung  over  her  enam- 
ored." "  Sit  ye  there,  my  dautie,  till  they  all  see 
you  "  ;  and  forthwith  he  brought  them  all.  You  can 
fancy  the  vscene.  And  he  lifted  her  up  and  marched 
to  his  seat  with  her  on  his  stout  shoulder,  and  set  her 
down  beside  him ;  and  then  began  the  night,  and 
such  a  night !  Those  who  knew  Scott  best  said,  that 
night  was  never  equaled ;  Maidie  and  he  were  the 
stars  ;  and  she  gave  them  Constance's  speeches  and 
Helvellyn,  the  ballad  then  much  in  vogue,  and  all 
her  repertoire,  —  Scott  showing  her  off,  and  being 
ofttimes  rebuked  by  her  for  his  intentional  blunders. 

We  are  indebted  for  the  following  —  and  our  read- 
ers will  not  be  unwilling  to  share  our  obligations  — to 
her  sister  :  —  "  Her  birth  was  15th  January,  1803  ; 
her  death  19th  December,  1811.  I  take  this  from 
her  Bibles.1  I  believe  she  was  a  child  of  robust 
health,  of  much  vigor  of  body,  and  beautifully  formed 
arms,  and  until  her  last  illness,  never  was  an  hour  in 
bed.  She  was  niece  to  Mrs.  Keith,  residing  in  No.  1 
North  Charlotte  Street,  who  was  not  Mrs.  Murray 

1  "Her  bible  is  before  me;  a  pair,  as  then  called;  the 
faded  marks  are  just  as  she  placed  them.  There  is  one  at 
David's  lament  over  Jonathan." 


120  MAHJORIE   FLEMING. 

Keith,  although  very  intimately  acquainted  with  that 
old  lady.  My  aunt  was  a  daughter  of  Mr.  James 
Rae,  surgeon,  and  married  the  younger  son  of  old 
Keith  of  Ravelstone.  Corstorphiue  Hill  belonged  to 
my  aunt's  husband  ;  and  his  eldest  son,  Sir  Alexander 
Keith,  succeeded  his  uncle  to  both  Ravelstone  and 
Dunnottar.  The  Keiths  were  not  connected  by  re- 
lationship with  the  Howisons  of  Braehead ;  but  my 
grandfather  and  grandmother  (who  was),  a  daughter 
of  Cant  of  Thurston  and  Giles-Grange,  were  on  the 
most  intimate  footing  with  our  Mrs.  Keith's  grand- 
father and  grandmother ;  and  so  it  has  been  for 
three  generations,  and  the  friendship  consummated 
by  my  cousin  William  Keith  marrying  Isabella  Crau- 
furd. 

"  As  to  my  aunt  and  Scott,  they  were  on  a  very 
intimate  footing.  He  asked  my  aunt  to  be  god- 
mother to  his  eldest  daughter  Sophia  Charlotte.  I 
had  a  copy  of  Miss  Edgeworth's  Rosamond,  and 
Harry  and  Lucy  for  long,  which  was  '  a  gift  to  Mar- 
jorie  from  Walter  Scott,'  probably  the  first  edition 
of  that  attractive  series,  for  it  wanted  Frank,  which 
is  always  now  published  as  part  of  the  series,  under 
the  title  of  Early  Lessons.  I  regret  to  say  these 
little  volumes  have  disappeared. 

"  Sir  Walter  was  no  relation  of  Marjorie's,  but  of 
the  Keiths,  through  the  Swintons  ;  and,  like  Mar- 
jorie,  he  stayed  much  at  Ravelstone  in  his  early  days, 
with  his  grand-aunt  Mrs.  Keith  ;  and  it  was  while 
seeing  him  there  as  a  boy  that  another  aunt  of  mine 


MARJORIE   FLEMING.  121 

composed,  when  he  was  about  fourteen,  the  lines 
prognosticating  his  future  fame  that  Lockhart  as- 
cribes in  his  Life  to  Mrs.  Cockburn,  authoress  of 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest :  — 

'  Go  on,  dear  youth,  the  glorious  path  pursue 
Which  bounteous  Nature  kindly  smooths  for  you ; 
Go  bid  the  seeds  her  hands  have  sown  arise, 
By  timely  culture,  to  their  native  skies  ; 
Go,  and  employ  the  poet's  heavenly  art, 
Not  merely  to  delight,  but  mend  the  heart.' 

Mrs.  Keir  was  my  aunt's  name,  another  of  Dr.  Rae's 
daughters."  We  cannot  better  end  than  in  words 
from  this  same  pen  :  "  I  have  to  ask  you  to  forgive 
my  anxiety  in  gathering  up  the  fragments  of  Mar- 
jorie's  last  days,  but  I  have  an  almost  sacred  feeling 
to  all  that  pertains  to  her.  You  are  quite  correct  in 
stating  that  measles  were  the  cause  of  her  death. 
My  mother  was  struck  by  the  patient  quietness  mani- 
fested by  Marjorie  during  this  illness,  unlike  her  ar- 
dent, impulsive  nature  ;  but  love  and  poetic  feeling 
were  unquenched.  When  Dr.  Johnstone  rewarded 
her  submissiveness  with  a  sixpence,  the  request 
speedily  followed  that  she  might  get  out  ere  New 
Year's  day  came.  When  asked  why  she  was  so  de- 
sirous of  getting  out,  she  immediately  rejoined,  '  Oh, 
I  am  so  anxious  to  buy  something  with  my  sixpence 
for  my  dear  Isa  Keith.'  Again,  when  lying  very 
still,  her  mother  asked  her  if  there  was  anything  she 
wished  ;  '  Oh  yes  !  if  you  would  just  leave  the  room 
door  open  a  wee  bit,  and  play  uThe  Land  o'  the 


122  MAEJORIE   FLEMING. 

Leal,"  and  I  will  lie  and  think,  and  enjoy  myself ' 
(this  is  just  as  stated  to  me  by  her  mother  and 
mine).  Well,  the  happy  day  came,  alike  to  parents 
and  child,  when  Marjorie  was  allowed  to  come  forth 
from  the  nursery  to  the  parlor.  It  was  Sabbath 
evening,  and  after  tea.  My  father,  who  idolized  this 
child,  and  never  afterwards  in  my  hearing  mentioned 
her  name,  took  her  in  his  arms  ;  and  while  walking 
her  up  and  down  the  room,  she  said,  '  Father,  I  will 
repeat  something  to  you ;  what  would  you  like  ?  ' 
He  said,  '  Just  choose  yourself,  Maidie.'  She  hesi- 
tated for  a  moment  between  the  paraphrase,  '  Few 
are  thy  days,  and  full  of  woe,'  and  the  lines  of  Burns 
already  quoted,  but  decided  on  the  latter,  a  remark- 
able choice  for  a  child.  The  repeating  these  lines 
seemed  to  stir  up  the  depths  of  feeling  in  her  soul. 
She  asked  to  be  allowed  to  write  a  poem  ;  there  was 
a  doubt  whether  it  would  be  right  to  allow  her,  in 
case  of  hurting  her  eyes.  She  pleaded  earnestly, 
'  Just  this  once  ' ;  the  point  was  yielded,  her  slate 
was  given  her,  and  with  great  rapidity  she  wrote  an 
address  of  fourteen  lines,  '  to  her  loved  cousin  on  the 
author's  recovery,'  her  last  work  on  earth  :  — 

Oh !  Isa,  pain  did  visit  me, 
I  was  at  the  last  extremity  ; 
How  often  did  I  think  of  you, 
I  wished  your  graceful  form  to  view, 
To  clasp  you  in  my  weak  embrace, 
Indeed  I  thought  I  'd  run  my  race  : 
Good  care,  I  'm  sure,  was  of  me  taken, 
But  still  indeed  I  was  much  shaken, 


MARJORIE   FLEMING.  123 

At  last  I  daily  strength  did  gain, 
And  oh  !  at  last,  away  went  pain ; 
At  length  the  doctor  thought  I  might 
Stay  in  the  parlor  all  the  night ; 
I  now  continue  so  to  do, 
Farewell  to  Nancy  and  to  you.' 

She  went  to  bed  apparently  well,  awoke  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  with  the  old  cry  of  woe  to  a 
mother's  heart,  '  My  head,  my  head  ! '  Three  days 
of  the  dire  malady, '  water  in  the  head,'  followed,  and 
the  end  came." 

"Soft,  silken  primrose,  fading  tunelessly." 

It  is  needless,  it  is  impossible,  to  add  anything  to 
this :  the  fervor,  the  sweetness,  the  flush  of  poetic 
ecstasy,  the  lovely  and  glowing  eye,  the  perfect  na- 
ture of  that  bright  and  warm  intelligence,  that  dar- 
ling child,  —  Lady  Nairne's  words,  and  the  old  tune, 
stealing  up  from  the  depths  of  the  human  heart,  deep 
calling  unto  deep,  gentle  and  strong  like  the  waves  of 
the  great  sea  hushing  themselves  to  sleep  in  the  dark  ; 
—  the  words  of  Burns  touching  the  kindred  chord, 
her  last  numbers  "  wildly  sweet "  traced,  with  thin 
and  eager  fingers,  already  touched  by  the  last  enemy 
and  friend,  —  moriens  canit,  —  and  that  love  which 
is  so  soon  to  be  her  everlasting  light,  is  her  song's 
burden  to  the  end, 

"  She  set  as  sets  the  morning  star,  which  goes 
Not  down  behind  the  darkened  west,  nor  hides 
Obscured  among  the  tempests  of  the  sky, 
But  melts  away  into  the  light  of  heaven." 


QUEEN  MARY'S  CHILD-GARDEN. 

IF  any  one  wants  a  pleasure  that  is  sure  to  please, 
one  over  which  he  need  n't  growl  the  sardonic  beati- 
tude of  the  great  Dean,  let  him,  when  the  Mercury  is 
at  "  Fair,"  take  the  nine  A.  M.  train  to  the  North 
and  a  return-ticket  for  Callander,  and  when  he  arrives 
at  Stirling  let  him  ask  the  most  obliging  and  knowing 
of  station-masters  to  telegraph  to  "  the  Dreadnought  " 
for  a  carriage  to  he  in  waiting.  When  passing  Dun- 
blane Cathedral,  let  him  resolve  to  write  to  the  Scots- 
man, advising  the  removal  of  a  couple  of  shabby 
trees  which  obstruct  the  view  of  that  beautiful  triple 
end  window  which  Mr.  Ruskin  and  everybody  else 
admires,  and  by  the  time  he  has  written  this  letter 
in  his  mind,  and  turned  the  sentences  to  it,  he  will 
find  himself  at  Callander  and  the  carriage  all  ready. 
Giving  the  order  for  the  Port  of  Monteith,  he  will 
rattle  through  this  hard  -  featured,  and  to  our  eye 
comfortless  village,  lying  ugly  amid  so  much  gran- 
deur and  beauty,  and  let  him  stop  on  the  crown  of 
the  bridge,  and  fill  his  eyes  with  the  perfection  of  the 
view  up  the  Pass  of  Leny  —  the  Teith  lying  diffuse 
and  asleep,  as  if  its  heart  were  in  the  Highlands  and 
it  were  loath  to  go,  the  noble  Ben  Ledi  imaged  in  its 


QUEEN  MARY'S  CHILD-GAKDEN.         125 

broad  stream.  Then  let  him  make  his  way  across  a 
bit  of  pleasant  moorland,  flushed  with  maiden-hair 
and  white  with  cotton-grass,  and  fragrant  with  the 
Orchis  conopsia,  well  deserving  its  epithet  odora- 
tissima. 

He  will  see  from  the  turn  of  the  hill-side  the  Blair 
of  Drummond  waving  with  corn  and  shadowed  with 
rich  woods,  where  eighty  years  ago  there  was  a  black 
peat-moss ;  and  far  off,  on  the  horizon,  Damyat  and 
the  Touch  Fells ;  and  at  his  side  the  little  loch  of 
Ruskie,  in  which  he  may  see  five  Highland  cattle, 
three  tawny  brown  and  two  brindled,  standing  in 
the  still  water  —  themselves  as  still,  all  except  their 
switching  tails  and  winking  ears  —  the  perfect  images 
of  quiet  enjoyment.  By  this  time  he  will  have  come 
in  sight  of  the  Lake  of  Monteith,  set  in  its  woods, 
with  its  magical  shadows  and  soft  gleams.  There  is 
a  loveliness,  a  gentleness  and  peace  about  it  more  like 
"  lone  St.  Mary's  Lake,"  or  Derwent  Water,  than  of 
any  of  its  sister  lochs.  It  is  lovely  rather  than  beau- 
tiful, and  is  a  sort  of  gentle  prelude,  in  the  minor 
key,  to  the  coming  glories  and  intenser  charms  of 
Loch  Ard  and  the  true  Highlands  beyond. 

You  are  now  at  the  Poi-t,  and  have  passed  the 
secluded  and  cheerful  manse,  and  the  parish  kirk 
with  its  graves,  close  to  the  lake,  and  the  proud  aisle 
of  the  Grahams  of  Gartmore  washed  by  its  waves. 
Across  the  road  is  the  modest  little  inn,  a  Fisher's 
Tryst.  On  the  unruffled  water  lie  several  islets, 
plump  with  rich  foliage,  brooding  like  great  birds  of 


126         QUEEN  MARY'S  CHILD-GARDEN. 

calm.  You  somehow  think  of  them  as  on,  not  in  the 
lake,  or  like  clouds  lying  in  a  nether  sky  — "  like 
ships  waiting  for  the  wind."  You  get  a  coble,  and  a 
yauld  old  Celt,  its  master,  and  are  rowed  across  to 
'Inchmahome,  the  Isle  of  Rest.  Here  you  find  on 
landing  huge  Spanish  chestnuts,  one  lying  dead,  others 
standing  stark  and  peeled,  like  gigantic  antlers,  and 
others  flourishing  in  their  viridis  senectus,  and  in  a 
thicket  of  wood  you  see  the  remains  of  a  monastery 
of  great  beauty,  the  design  and  workmanship  ex- 
quisite. You  wander  through  the  ruins,  overgrown 
with  ferns  and  Spanish  filberts,  and  old  fruit-trees, 
and  at  the  corner  of  the  old  monkish  garden  you 
come  upon  one  of  the  strangest  and  most  touching 
sights  you  ever  saw  —  an  oval  space  of  about  eighteen 
feet  by  twelve,  with  the  remains  of  a  double  row  of 
boxwood  all  round,  the  plants  of  box  being  about  four- 
teen feet  high,  and  eight  or  nine  inches  in  diameter, 
healthy,  but  plainly  of  great  age. 

What  is  this  ?  it  is  called  in  the  guide-books  Queen 
Mary's  Bower  ;  but  besides  its  being  plainly  not  in 
the  least  a  bower,  what  could  the  little  Queen,  then 
five  years  old,  and  "  fancy  free,"  do  with  a  bower  ? 
It  is  plainly,  as  was,  we  believe,  first  suggested  by 
our  keen-sighted  and  diagnostic  Professor  of  Clinical 
Surgery,1  the  Child-Queen's  Garden,  with  her  little 

1  The  same  seeing  eye  and  understanding  mind,  when  they 
•were  eighteen  years  of  age,  discovered  and  published  the  Sol- 
vent of  Caoutchouc,  for  which  a  patent  was  taken  out  after- 
wards by  the  famous  Mackintosh.  If  the  young  discoverer 


QUEEN  MARY'S  CHILD-GARDEN.         127 

walk,  and  its  rows  of  boxwood,  left  to  themselves 
for  three  hundred  years.  Yes,  without  doubt,  "  here 
is  that  first  garden  of  her  simpleness."  Fancy  the 
little,  lovely  royal  child,  with  her  four  Marys,  her 
playfellows,  her  child  maids  of  honor,  with  their  little 
hands  and  feet,  and  their  innocent  and  happy  eyes, 
pattering  about  that  garden  all  that  time  ago,  laugh- 
ing and  running,  and  gardening  as  only  children  do 
and  can.  As  is  well  known,  Mary  was  placed  by 
her  mother  in  this  Isle  of  Rest  before  sailing  from 
the  Clyde  for  France.  There  is  something  "  that 
tirls  the  heartstrings  a'  to  the  life  "  in  standing  and 
looking  on  this  unmistakable  living  relic  of  that 
strange  and  pathetic  old  time.  Were  we  Mr.  Tenny- 
son, we  would  write  an  Idyll  of  that  child-Queen,  in 
that  garden  of  hers,  eating  her  bread  and  honey  — 
getting  her  teaching  from  the  holy  men,  the  monks  of 
old,  and  running  off  in  wild  mirth  to  her  garden  and 
her  flowers,  all  unconscious  of  the  black,  lowering 
thunder-cloud  on  Ben  Lomond's  shoulder. 

"  Oh,  blessed  vision!  happy  child! 
Thou  art  so  exquisitely  wild ; 
I  think  of  thee  with  many  fears 
Of  what  may  be  thy  lot  in  future  years. 
I  thought  of  times  when  Pain  might  be  thy  guest, 
Lord  of  thy  house  and  hospitality. 
And  Grief,  uneasy  lover !   never  rest 
But  when  she  sat  within  the  touch  of  thce. 

had  secured  the  patent,  he  might  have  made  a  fortune  as  large 
as  his  present  reputation  —  I  don't  suppose  he  much  regrets 
that  he  did  n't. 


128  QUEEN   MARY'S   CHILD-GARDEN. 

What  hast  thou  to  do  with  sorrow, 
Or  the  injuries  of  to-morrow  ?  " 

You  have  ample  time  to  linger  there  amid 

"  The  gleams,  the  shadows,  and  the  peace  profound," 

and  get  your  mind  informed  with  quietness  and 
beauty,  and  fed  with  thoughts  of  other  years,  and  of 
her  whose  story,  like  Helen  of  Troy's,  will  continue 
to  move  the  hearts  of  men  as  long  as  the  gray  hills 
stand  round  about  that  gentle  lake,  and  are  mirrored 
at  evening  in  its  depths.  You  may  do  and  enjoy  all 
this,  and  be  in  Princes  Street  by  nine  p.  M.  ;  and  we 
wish  we  were  as  sure  of  many  things  as  of  your  say- 
ing, "  Yes,  this  -is  a  pleasure  that  has  pleased,  and 
will  please  again  ;  this  was  something  expected  which 
did  not  disappoint." 


There  is  another  garden  of  Queen  Mary's,  which 
may  still  be  seen,  and  which  has  been  left  to  itself 
like  that  in  the  Isle  of  Rest.  It  is  in  the  grounds  at 
Chatsworth,  and  is  moated,  walled  round,  and  raised 
about  fifteen  feet  above  the  park.  Here  the  Queen, 
when  a  prisoner  under  the  charge  of  "  Old  Bess  of 
Hardwake,"  was  allowed  to  walk  without  any  guard. 
How  different  the  two !  and  how  different  she  who 
took  her  pleasure  in  them ! 


QUEEN  MAEY'S  CHILD-GARDEN.         129 

Lines  written  on  the   steps  of  a  small  moated  garden  at 
Chatsworth,  called 

"QUEEN  MARY'S  BOWER. 

"  The  moated  bower  is  -wild  and  drear, 

And  sad  the  dark  yew's  shade  ; 
The  flowers  which  bloom  in  silence  here, 
In  silence  also  fade. 

"  The  woodbine  and  the  light  wild  rose 

Float  o'er  the  broken  wall ; 
And  here  the  mournful  nightshade  blows, 
To  note  the  garden's  fall. 

"  Where  once  a  princess  wept  her  woes, 

The  bird  of  night  complains  ; 
And  sighing  trees  the  tale  disclose 
They  learnt  from  Mary's  strains. 

"A.  H." 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

LETTER   TO  JOHN   CAIRNS,  D.  D. 

23  RUTLAND  STREET,  lo<A  August,  1860. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  —  When,  at  the  urgent  request 
of  his  trustees  and  family,  and  in  accordance  with 
what  I  believe  was  his  own  wish,  you  undertook  my 
father's  Memoir,  it  was  in  a  measure  on  the  under- 
standing that  I  would  furnish  you  with  some  domes- 
tic and  personal  details.  This  I  hoped  to  have  done 
but  was  unable. 

Though  convinced  more  than  ever  how  little  my 
hand  is  needed,  I  will  now  endeavor  to  fulfill  my 
promise.  Before  doing  so,  however,  you  must  per- 
mit me  to  express  our  deep  gratitude  to  you  for  this 
crowning  proof  of  your  regard  for  him 

"  Without  whose  life  we  had  not  been  ;  " 

to  whom  for  many  years  you  habitually  wrote  as 
"  My  father,"  and  one  of  whose  best  blessings,  when 
he  was  "  such  an  one  as  Paul  the  aged,"  was  to  know 
that  you  were  to  him  "  mine  own  son  in  the  gospel." 
With  regard  to  the  manner  in  which  you  have 
done  this  last  kindness  to  the  dead,  I  can  say  noth- 
ing more  expressive  of  our  feelings,  and,  I  am  sure, 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  131 

nothing  more  gratifying  to  you,  than  that  the  record 
you  have  given  of  my  father's  life,  and  of  the  series 
of  great  public  questions  in  which  he  took  part,  is 
done  in  the  way  which  would  have  been  most  pleas- 
ing to  himself  —  that  which,  with  his  passionate  love 
of  truth  and  liberty,  his  relish  for  concentrated,  just 
thought  and  expression,  and  his  love  of  being  loved, 
he  would  have  most  desired,  in  any  one  speaking  of 
him  after  he  was  gone.  He  would,  I  doubt  not,  say, 
as  one  said  to  a  great  painter,  on  looking  at  his  por- 
trait, "  It  is  certainly  like,  but  it  is  much  better  look- 
ing ; "  and  you  might  well  reply  as  did  the  painter, 
"  It  is  the  truth  told  lovingly  "  —  and  all  the  more 
true  that  it  is  so  told.  You  have,  indeed,  been  ena- 
bled to  speak  the  truth,  or  as  the  Greek  has  it, 
dXrjOtveiv  iv  ayd-mj  —  to  truth  it  in  love. 

I  have  over  and  over  again  sat  down  to  try  and  do 
what  I  promised  and  wished  —  to  give  some  faint  ex- 
pression of  my  father's  life ;  not  of  what  he  did  or 
said  or  wrote,  not  even  of  what  he  was  as  a  man  of 
God  and  a  public  teacher ;  but  what  he  was  in  his 
essential  nature  —  what  he  would  have  been  had  he 
been  anything  else  than  what  he  was,  or  had  lived  a 
thousand  years  ago. 

Sometimes  I  have  this  so  vividly  in  my  mind  that 
I  think  I  have  only  to  sit  down  and  write  it  off,  and 
do  it  to  the  quick.  "  The  idea  of  his  life,"  what  he 
was  as  a  whole,  what  was  his  self,  all  his  days,  would, 
—  to  go  on  with  words  which  not  time  or  custom  can 
ever  wither  or  make  stale,  — 


132  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

"  Sweetly  creep 

Into  my  study  of  imagination  ; 
And  every  lovely  organ  of  his  life 
Would  come  appareled  in  more  precious  habit  — 
More  moving  delicate,  and  full  of  life, 
Into  the  eye  and  prospect  of  my  soul, 
Than  when  he  lived  indeed,"  — 

as  if  the  sacredness  of  death  and  the  bloom  of  eternity 
were  on  it ;  or  as  you  may  have  seen  in  an  untroub- 
led lake  the  heaven  reflected  with  its  clouds,  brighter, 
purer,  more  exquisite  than  itself  ;  but  when  you  try 
to  put  this  into  words,  to  detain  yourself  over  it,  it  is 
by  this  very  act  disturbed,  broken,  and  bedimmed, 
and  soon  vanishes  away,  as  would  the  imaged  heav- 
ens in  the  lake,  if  a  pebble  were  cast  into  it,  or  a 
breath  of  wind  stirred  its  face.  The  very  anxiety  to 
transfer  it,  as  it  looked  out  of  the  clear  darkness  of 
the  past,  makes  the  image  grow  dim  and  disappear. 

Every  one  whose  thoughts  are  not  seldom  with  the 
dead  must  have  felt  both  these  conditions :  how,  in 
certain  passive,  tranquil  states,  there  comes  up  into 
the  darkened  chamber  of  the  mind  its  "  chamber 
of  imagery,"  —  uncalled,  as  if  it  blossomed  out  of 
space,  exact,  absolute,  consummate,  vivid,  speaking, 
not  darkly  as  in  a  glass,  but  face  to  face,  and  "  mov- 
ing delicate,"  —  this  "  idea  of  his  life  ;  "  and  then 
how  an  effort  to  prolong  and  perpetuate  and  record 
all  this  troubles  the  vision  and  kills  it !  It  is  as  if 
one  should  try  to  paint  in  a  mirror  the  reflection  of  a 
dear  and  unseen  face  ;  the  coarse,  uncertain,  passion- 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR,  133 

ate  handling  and  color,  ineffectual  and  hopeless,  shut 
out  the  very  thing  itself. 

I  will  therefore  give  this  up  as  in  vain,  and  try  by 
some  fragmentary  sketches,  scenes,  and  anecdotes,  to 
let  you  know  in  some  measure  what  manner  of  man 
my  father  was.  Anecdotes,  if  true  and  alive,  are  al- 
ways valuable  ;  the  man  in  the  concrete,  the  totus  quis 
comes  out  in  them  ;  and  I  know  you  too  well  to  think 
that  you  will  consider  as  trivial  or  out  of  place  any- 
thing in  which  his  real  nature  displayed  itself,  and 
your  own  sense  of  humor  as  a  master  and  central 
power  of  the  human  soul,  playing  about  the  very  es- 
sence of  the  man,  will  do  more  than  forgive  anything 
of  this  kind  which  may  crop  out  here  and  there, 
like  the  smile  of  wild-flowers  in  grass  or  by  the  way- 
side. 

My  first  recollection  of  my  father,  my  first  impres- 
sion, not  only  of  his  character,  but  of  his  eyes  and 
face  and  presence,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  dates  from 
my  fifth  year.  Doubtless  I  had  looked  at  him  often 
enough  before  that,  and  had  my  own  childish  thoughts 
about  him  ;  but  this  was  the  time  when  I  got  my  fixed, 
compact  idea  of  him,  and  the  first  look  of  him  which 
I  felt  could  never  be  forgotten.  I  saw  him,  as  it  were, 
by  a  flash  of  lightning,  sudden  and  complete.  A  child 
begins  by  seeing  bits  of  everything ;  it  knows  in  part 
—  here  a  little,  there  a  little  ;  it  makes  up  its  wholes 
out  of  its  own  littles,  and  is  long  of  reaching  the  full- 
ness of  a  whole ;  and  in  this  we  are  children  all  our 
lives  in  much.  Children  are  long  of  seeing,  or  at 


134  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

least  of  looking  at  what  is  above  them ;  they  like  the 
ground,  and  its  flowers  and  stones,  its  "  red  sodgers  " 
and  lady-birds,  and  all  its  queer  things ;  their  world 
is  about  three  feet  high,  and  they  are  more  often 
stooping  than  gazing  up.  I  know  I  was  past  ten  be- 
fore I  saw,  or  cared  to  see,  the  ceilings  of  the  rooms 
in  the  manse  at  Biggar. 

On  the  morning  of  the  28th  May,  1816,  my  eldest 
sister  Janet  and  I  were  sleeping  in  the  kitchen-bed 
with  Tibbie  Meek,1  our  only  servant.  We  were  all 
three  awakened  by  a  cry  of  pain  —  sharp,  insufferable, 
as  if  one  were  stung.  Years  after  we  two  confided 
to  each  other,  sitting  by  the  burnside,  that  we  thought 
that  "  great  cry  "  which  arose  at  midnight  in  Egypt 
must  have  been  like  it.  We  all  knew  whose  voice  it 
was,  and,  in  our  night-clothes,  we  ran  into  the  passage, 
and  into  the  little  parlor  to  the  left-hand,  in  which 
was  a  closet-bed.  We  found  my  father  standing  be- 
fore us,  erect,  his  hands  clenched  in  his  black  hair,  his 
eyes  full  of  misery  and  amazement,  his  face  white  as 
that  of  the  dead.  He  frightened  us.  He  saw  this, 

1  A  year  ago,  I  found  an  elderly  countrywoman,  a  widow, 
waiting  for  me.  Rising  up,  she  said,  "  D'  ye  mind  me  ?  "  I 
looked  at  her,  but  could  get  nothing  from  her  face  ;  but  the 
voice  remained  in  my  ear,  as  if  coming  from  "the  fields  of 
sleep,"  and  I  said  by  a  sort  of  instinct,  "  Tibbie  Meek !  "  I  had 
not  seen  her  or  heard  her  voice  for  more  than  forty  years.  She 
had  come  to  get.  some  medical  advice.  Voices  are  often  like 
the  smells  of  flowers  and  leaves,  the  tastes  of  wild  f  mits  —  they 
touch  and  awaken  memory  in  a  strange  way.  "  Tibbie  ' '  is  now 
living  at  Thankerton. 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  135 

or  else  his  intense  will  had  mastered  his  agony,  for, 
taking  his  hands  from  his  head,  he  said,  slowly  and 
gently,  "  Let  us  give  thanks,"  and  turned  to  a  little 
sofa  in  the  room  ;  there  lay  our  mother  dead.1  She 
had  long  heen  ailing.  I  remember  her  sitting  in  a 
shawl,  —  an  Indian  one  with  little  dark  green  spots 
on  a  light  ground,  —  and  watching  her  growing  pale 
with  what  I  afterwards  knew  must  have  been  strong 
pain.  She  had,  being  feverish,  slipped  out  of  bed, 
and  "grandmother,"  her  mother,  seeing  her  "change 
come,"  had  called  my  father,  and  they  two  saw  her 
open  her  blue,  kind,  and  true  eyes,  "  comfortable  "  to 
us  all  "  as  the  day,"  —  I  remember  them  better  than 
those  of  any  one  I  saw  yesterday,  —  and,  with  one 
faint  look  of  recognition  to  him,  close  them  till  the 
time  of  the  restitution  of  all  things. 

"  She  had  another  morn  than  onrs." 

Then  were  seen  in  full  action  his  keen,  passionate 
nature,  his  sense  of  mental  pain,  and  his  supreme  will, 
instant  and  unsparing,  making  himself  and  his  ter- 
rified household  give  thanks  in  the  midst  of  such  a 
desolation,  —  and  for  it.  Her  warfare  was  accom- 
plished, her  iniquities  were  pardoned :  she  had  al- 
ready received  from  her  Lord's  hand  double  for  all 
her  sins ;  this  was  his  supreme  and  over  -  mastering 
thought,  and  he  gave  it  utterance. 

No  man   was  happier  in  his  wives.     My  mother 

1  This  sofa,  which  was  henceforward  sacred  in  the  house,  he 
had  always  beside  him.  He  used  to  tell  us  he  set  her  down 
upon  it  when  he  brought  her  home  to  the  manse. 


136  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

was  modest,  calm,  thrifty,  reasonable,  tender,  happy- 
hearted.  She  was  his  student-love,  and  is  even  now 
remembered  in  that  pastoral  region,  for  "  her  sweet 
gentleness  and  wife -like  government."  Her  death, 
and  his  sorrow  and  loss,  settled  down  deep  into  the 
heart  of  the  countryside.  He  was  so  young  and 
bright,  so  full  of  fire,  so  unlike  any  one  else,  so  de- 
voted to  his  work,  so  chivalrous  in  his  look  and 
manner,  so  fearless,  and  yet  so  sensitive  and  self- 
contained.  She  was  so  wise,  good  and  gentle,  gra- 
cious and  frank. 

His  subtlety  of  affection,  and  his  almost  cruel 
self-command,  were  shown  on  the  day  of  the  funeral. 
It  was  to  Symington,  four  miles  off,  —  a  quiet  little 
churchyard,  lying  in  the  shadow  of  Tinto  ;  a  place 
where  she  herself  had  wished  to  be  laid.  The  funeral 
was  chiefly  on  horseback.  "We,  the  family,  were  in 
coaches.  I  had  been  since  the  death  in  a  sort  of  stu- 
pid musing  and  wonder,  not  making  out  what  it  all 
meant.  I  knew  my  mother  was  said  to  be  dead.  I 
saw  she  was  still,  and  laid  out,  and  then  shut  up,  and 
did  n't  move  ;  but  I  did  not  know  that  when  she  was 
carried  out  in  that  long  black  box,  and  we  all  went 
with  her,  she  alone  was  never  to  return. 

When  we  got  to  the  village  all  the  people  were  at 
their  doors.  One  woman,  the  blacksmith  Thomas 
Spence's  wife,  had  a  nursing  baby  in  her  arms,  and 
he  leapt  up  and  crowed  with  joy  at  the  strange  sight, 
the  crowding  horsemen,  the  coaches,  and  the  nodding 
plumes  of  the  hearse.  This  was  my  brother  William, 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  137 

then  nine  months  old,  and  Margaret  Spence  was  his 
foster-mother.  Those  with  me  were  overcome  at  this 
sight ;  he  of  all  the  world  whose,  in  some  ways,  was 
the  greatest  loss,  the  least  conscious,  turning  it  to  his 
own  childish  glee. 

We  got  to  the  churchyard  and  stood  round  the 
open  grave.  My  dear  old  grandfather  was  asked  by 
my  father  to  pray ;  he  did.  I  don't  remember  his 
words ;  I  believe  he,  through  his  tears  and  sobs, 
repeated  the  Divine  words,  "All  flesh  is  grass,  and 
all  the  glory  of  man  as  the  flower  of  the  grass ;  the 
grass  withereth,  and  the  flower  thereof  falleth  away, 
but  the  word  of  the  Lord  endureth  forever  ;  "  adding, 
in  his  homely  and  pathetic  way,  that  the  flower 
would  again  bloom,  never  again  to  fade  ;  that  what 
was  now  sown  in  dishonor  and  weakness,  would  be 
raised  in  glory  and  power,  like  unto  His  own  glorious 
body.  Then  to  my  surprise  and  alarm,  the  coffin, 
resting  on  its  bearers,  was  placed  over  that  dark  hole, 
and  I  watched  with  curious  eye  the  unrolling  of  those 
neat  black  bunches  of  cords,  which  I  have  often 
enough  seen  since.  My  father  took  the  one  at  the 
head,  and  also  another  much  smaller  springing  from 
the  same  point  as  his,  which  he  had  caused  to  be  put 
there,  and  unrolling  it,  put  it  into  my  hand.  I 
twisted  it  firmly  round  my  fingers,  and  awaited  the 
result ;  the  burial  men  with  their  real  ropes  lowered 
the  coffin,  and  when  it  rested  at  the  bottom,  it  was 
too  far  down  for  me  to  see  it,  —  the  grave  was  made 
very  deep,  as  he  used  afterwards  to  tell  us,  that  it 


138  MY   FATHER'S    MEMOIR. 

might  hold  us  all,  —  my  father  first  and  abruptly  let 
his  cord  drop,  followed  by  the  rest.  This  was  too 
much.  I  now  saw  what  was  meant,  and  held  on  and 
fixed  my  fist  and  feet,  and  I  believe  my  father  had 
some  difficulty  in  forcing  open  my  small  fingers ;  he 
let  the  little  black  cord  drop,  and  I  remember,  in  my 
misery  and  anger,  seeing  its  open  end  disappearing 
in  the  gloom. 

My  mother's  death  was  the  second  epoch  in  my 
father's  life ;  it  marked  a  change  at  once  and  for 
life  ;  and  for  a  man  so  self-reliant,  so  poised  upon 
a  centre  of  his  own,  it  is  wonderful  the  extent  of 
change  it  made.  He  went  home,  preached  her  fune- 
ral sermon,  every  one  in  the  church  in  tears,  him- 
self outwardly  unmoved.1  But  from  that  time  dates 
an  entire,  though  always  deepening,  alteration  in  his 
manner  of  preaching,  because  an  entire  change  in 
his  way  of  dealing  with  God's  Word.  Not  that  his 
abiding  religious  views  and  convictions  were  then 
originated  or  even  altered.  —  I  doubt  not  that  from  a 
child  he  not  only  knew  the  Holy  Scriptures,  but  was 
"  wise  unto  salvation,"  —  but  it  strengthened  and 
clarified,  quickened  and  gave  permanent  direction  to, 
his  sense  of  God  as  revealed  in  His  Word.  He  took 
as  it  were  to  subsoil  ploughing ;  he  got  a  new  and 
adamantine  point  to  the  instrument  with  which  he 
bored ;  and  with  a  fresh  power,  with  his  whole 
might,  he  sunk  it  right  down  into  the  living  rock  to 

1  T  have  been  told  that  once  in  the  course  of  the  sermon  his 
voice  trembled,  and  many  feared  he  was  about  to  break  down. 


MY  FATHER'S  S:EMOIR.  139 

the  virgin  gold.  His  entire  nature  had  got  a  shock, 
and  his  blood  was  drawn  inwards,  his  surface  was 
chilled  ;  but  fuel  was  heaped  all  the  more  on  the  in- 
ner fires,  and  his  zeal,  that  TL  Beppov  7rpayju,a,  burned 
with  a  new  ardor  ;  indeed  had  he  not  found  an  out- 
let for  his  pent-up  energy  his  brain  must  have  given 
way,  and  his  faculties  have  either  consumed  them- 
selves in  wild,  wasteful  splendor  and  combustion,  or 
dwindled  into  lethargy.1 

The  manse  became  silent ;  we  lived  and  slept  and 
played  under  the  shadow  of  that  death,  and  we  saw, 
or  rather  felt,  that  he  was  another  father  than  before. 
No  more  happy  laughter  from  the  two  in  the  parlor, 
as  he  was  reading  Larry,  the  Irish  postboy's  letter 
in  Miss  Edgeworth's  tale,  or  the  last  Waverly  novel ; 
no  more  visitings  in  a  cart  with  her,  he  riding  beside 
us  on  his  white  thorough-bred  pony,  to  Kilbucho,  or 
Rachan  Mill,  or  Kirklawhill.  He  went  among  his 
people  as  usual  when  they  were  ill ;  he  preached  bet- 
ter than  ever  —  they  were  sometimes  frightened  to 
think  how  wonderfully  he  preached  ;  but  the  sun- 
shine was  over  —  the  glad  and  careless  look,  the 
joy  of  young  life  and  mutual  love.  He  was  little 

1  There  is  a  story  illustrative  of  this  altered  manner  and 
matter  of  preaching.  He  had  been  preaching  when  very 
young  at  Galashiels,  and  one  wife  said  to  her  "  neebor," 
"Jean,  what  think  ye  o' the  lad?"  "J<'s  maist  o' '<  tinsel 
wark,"  said  Jean,  neither  relishing  nor  appreciating  his  fine 
sentiments  and  figures.  After  my  mother's  death,  he  preached 
in  the  same  place,  and  Jean,  running  to  her  friend,  took  the 
first  word,  "  It 's  a'  goivd  noo." 


140  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

with  us,  and,  as  I  said,  the  house  was  still,  except 
when  he  was  mandating  his  sermons  for  Sabbath. 
This  he  always  did,  not  only  viva  voce,  but  with  as 
much  energy  and  loudness  as  in  the  pulpit ;  we  felt 
his  voice  was  sharper,  and  rang  keen  through  the 
house. 

What  we  lost,  the  congregation  and  the  world 
gained.  He  gave  himself  wholly  to  his  work.  As 
you  have  yourself  said,  he  changed  his  entire  system 
and  fashion  of  preaching ;  from  being  elegant,  rhe- 
torical, and  ambitious,  he  became  concentrated,  ur- 
gent, moving  (being  himself  moved),  keen,  searching, 
unswerving,  authoritative  to  fierceness,  full  of  the 
terrors  of  the  Lord,  if  he  could  but  persuade  men. 
The  truth  of  the  words  of  God  had  shone  out  upon 
him  with  an  immediateness  and  infinity  of  meaning 
and  power,  which  made  them,  though  the  same 
words  he  had  looked  on  from  childhood,  other  and 
greater  and  deeper  words.  He  then  left  the  ordi- 
nary commentators,  and  men  who  write  about  mean- 
ings and  flutter  around  the  circumference  and  cor- 
ners ;  he  was  bent  on  the  centre,  on  touching  with 
his  own  fingers,  on  seeing  with  his  own  eyes,  the 
pearl  of  great  price.  Then  it  was  that  he  began  to 
dig  into  the  depths,  into  the  primary  and  auriferous 
rock  of  Scripture,  and  take  nothing  at  another's 
hand  ;  then  he  took  up  with  the  word  "  apprehend  ;  " 
he  had  laid  hold  of  the  truth,  —  there  it  was,  with 
its  evidence,  in  his  hand  ;  and  every  one  who  knew 
him  must  remember  well  how,  in  speaking  with  ear- 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  141 

nestness  of  the  meaning  of  a  passage,  he  in  his 
ardent,  hesitating  way,  looked  into  the  palm  of  his 
hand  as  if  he  actually  saw  there  the  truth  he  was 
going  to  utter.  This  word  apprehend  played  a  large 
part  in  liis  lectures,  as  the  thing  itself  did  in  his 
processes  of  investigation,  or,  if  I  might  make  a 
word,  indigation.  Comprehension,  he  said,  was  for 
few  ;  apprehension  was  for  every  man  who  had  hands 
and  a  head  to  rule  them,  and  an  eye  to  direct 
them.  Out  of  this  arose  one  of  his  deficiencies.  He 
could  go  largely  into  the  generalities  of  a  subject, 
and  relished  greatly  others  doing  it,  so  that  they 
did  do  it  really  and  well ;  hut  he  was  averse  to  ab- 
stract and  wide  reasonings.  Principles  he  rejoiced 
in  :  he  worked  with  them  as  with  his  choicest  weap- 
ons ;  they  were  the  polished  stones  for  his  sling, 
against  the  Goliaths  of  presumption,  error,  and  tyr- 
anny in  thought  or  in  polity,  civil  or  ecclesiastical, 
but  he  somehow  divined  a  principle,  or  got  at  it 
naked  and  alone,  rather  than  deduced  it  and  brought 
it  to  a  point  from  an  immensity  of  particulars,  and 
then  rendered  it  back  so  as  to  bind  them  into  one 
cosmos.  One  of  my  young  friends  now  dead,  who 
afterwards  went  to  India,  used  to  come  and  hear  him 
in  Broughton  Place  with  me,  and  this  word  appre- 
hend caught  him,  and  as  he  had  a  great  love  for  my 
father,  in  writing  home  to  me  he  never  forgot  to  ask 
how  "  grand  old  Apprehend  "  was. 

From  this  time  dates  my  father's  possession  and 
use  of  the  German  Exegetics.     After  my   mother's 


142  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

death  I  slept  with  him ;  his  hed  was  in  his  study,  a 
small  room, 1  with  a  very  small  grate  ;  and  I  remem- 
her  well  his  getting  those  fat,  shapeless,  spongy  Ger- 
man books,  as  if  one  would  sink  in  them,  and  be 
bogged  in  their  bibulous,  unsized  paper ;  and  watch- 
ing him  as  he  impatiently  cut  them  up,  and  dived  into 
them  in  his  rapid,  eclectic  way,  tasting  them,  and 
dropping  for  my  play  such  a  lot  of  soft,  large,  curled 
bits  from  the  paper-cutter,  leaving  the  edges  all 
shaggy.  He  never  came  to  bed  when  I  was  awake, 
which  was  not  to  be  wondered  at ;  but  I  can  remem- 
ber often  awaking  far  on  in  the  night  or  morning,  and 
seeing  that  keen,  beautiful,  intense  face  bending  over 
these  Rosenmtillers,  and  Ernestis,  and  Storrs,  and 
Kuinoels,  —  the  fire  out,  and  the  gray  dawn  peering 
through  the  window ;  and  when  he  heard  me  move, 
he  would  speak  to  me  in  the  foolish  words  of  endear- 
ment my  mother  was  wont  to  use,  and  come  to 
bed,  and  take  me,  warm  as  I  was,  into  his  cold 
bosom. 

Vitrinya  in  Jesaiam  I  especially  remember,  a  noble 
folio.  Even  then,  with  that  eagerness  to  communicate 
what  he  had  himself  found,  of  which  you  must  often 
have  been  made  the  subject,  he  went  and  told  it.  He 
would  try  to  make  me,  small  man  as  I  was,  "  appre- 
hend "  what  he  and  Vitringa  between  them  had  made 
out  of  the  fifty-third  chapter  of  his  favorite  prophet, 

1  On  a  low  chest  of  drawers  in  this  room  there  lay  for  many 
years  my  mother's  parasol,  by  his  orders  —  I  daresay  for  long 
the  only  one  in  Biggar. 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  143 

the  princely  Isaiah.1  Even  then,  so  far  as  I  can  re- 
call, he  never  took  notes  of  what  he  read.  He  did 
not  need  this,  his  intellectual  force  and  clearness  were 
so  great ;  he  w,as  so  totus  in  illo,  whatever  it  was,  that 

1  His  reading  aloud  of  everything  from  John  Gilpin  to  John 
Howe  was  a  fine  and  high  art,  or  rather  gift.  Henderson  could 
not  have  given 

"  The  dinner  waits,  and  we  are  tired  ;  " 
Says  Gilpin,  "  So  am  I," 

better ;  and  to  hear  him  sounding  the  depths  and  cadences  of 
the  Living  Temple,  "  bearing  on  its  front  this  doleful  inscrip- 
tion, 'Here  God  once  dwelt,'  "  was  like  listening  to  the  recita- 
tive of  Handel.  But  Isaiah  was  his  masterpiece ;  and  I 
remember  quite  well  his  startling  us  all  when  reading  at  family 
worship,  "His  name  shall  be  called  Wonderful,  Counsellor, 
the  mighty  God,"  by  a  peremptory,  explosive  sharpness,  as  of 
thunder  overhead,  at  the  words  "  the  mighty  God,"  similar  to 
the  rendering  now  given  to  Handel's  music,  and  doubtless  so 
meant  by  him  ;  and  then  closing  with  "  the  Prince  of  Peace," 
soft  and  low.  No  man  who  wishes  to  feel  Isaiah,  as  well  as 
Understand  him,  should  be  ignorant  of  Handel's  "  Messiah.'1'' 
His  prelude  to  "  Comfort  ye  "  — its  simple  theme,  cheerful  and 
infinite,  as  the  ripple  of  the  unsearchable  sea  —  gives  a  deeper 
meaning  to  the  words.  One  of  my  father's  great  delights  in  his 
dying  months  was  reading  the  lives  of  Handel  and  of  Michael 
Angelo,  then  newly  out.  He  felt  that  the  author  of  "  He  was 
despised,"  and  "He  shall  feed  hia  flock,"  and  those  other 
wonderful  airs,  was  a  man  of  profound  religious  feeling,  of 
which  they  were  the  utterance ;  and  he  rejoiced  over  the  war- 
like airs  and  choruses  of  "  Judas  Maccabseus."  You  have  re- 
corded his  estimate  of  the  religious  nature  of  him  of  the 
terribile  via ;  he  said  it  was  a  relief  to  his  mind  to  know  that 
such  a  mighty  genius  walked  humbly  with  his  God. 


144  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

he  recorded  by  a  secret  of  its  own,  his  mind's  results 
and  victories  and  memoranda,  as  he  went  on  ;  he  did 
not  even  mark  his  books,  at  least  very  seldom ;  he 
marked  his  mind. 

He  was  thus  every  year  preaching  with  more  and 
more  power,  because  with  more  and  more  knowledge 
and  "  pureness  ;  "  and,  as  you  say,  there  were  probably 
nowhere  in  Britain  such  lectures  delivered  at  that  time 
to  such  an  audience,  consisting  of  country  people, 
sound,  devout,  well-read  in  their  Bibles  and  in  the 
native  divinity,  but  quite  unused  to  persistent,  deep, 
critical  thought. 

Much  of  this  —  most  of  it  —  was  entirely  his  own, 
self  -  originated  and  self  -  sustained,  and  done  for  its 
own  sake, 

"  All  too  happy  in  the  pleasure 
Of  his  own  exceeding  treasure." 

But  he  often  said,  with  deep  feeling,  that  one  thing 
put  him  always  on  his  mettle,  the  knowledge  that 
"yonder  in  that  corner,  under  the  gallery,  sat,  Sab- 
bath after  Sabbath,  a  man  who  knew  his  Greek  Testa- 
ment better  than  I  did." 

This  was  his  brother-in-law,  and  one  of  his  elders, 
Mr.  Robert  Johnston,  married  to  his  sister  Violet,  a 
merchant  and  portioner  in  Biggar,  a  remarkable  man, 
of  whom  it  is  difficult  to  say  to  strangers  what  is  true, 
without  being  accused  of  exaggeration.  A  shopkeeper 
in  that  remote  little  town,  he  not  only  intermeddled 
fearlessly  with  all  knowledge,  but  mastered  more  than 
many  practiced  and  university  men  do  in  their  own 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  145 

lines.  Mathematics,  astronomy,  and  especially  what 
may  be  called  selenology,  or  the  doctrine  of  the  moon, 
and  the  higher  geometry  and  physics  ;  Hebrew,  San- 
skrit, Greek,  and  Latin,  to  the  veriest  rigors  of  prosody 
and  metre ;  Spanish  and  Italian,  German,  French, 
and  any  odd  language  that  came  in  his  way  ;  all  these 
he  knew  more  or  less  thoroughly,  and  acquired  them 
in  the  most  leisurely,  easy,  cool  sort  of  way,  as  if  he 
grazed  and  browsed  perpetually  in  the  field  of  letters, 
rather  than  made  formal  meals,  or  gathered  for  any 
ulterior  purpose  his  fruits,  his  roots,  and  his  nuts  — 
he  especially  liked  mental  nuts  —  much  less  bought 
them  from  any  one. 

With  all  this,  his  knowledge  of  human,  and  espe- 
cially of  Biggar  human  nature,  the  ins  and  outs  of  its 
little  secret  on-goings,  the  entire  gossip  of  the  place, 
was  like  a  woman's  ;  moreover,  every  personage  great 
or  small,  heroic  or  comic,  in  Homer,  —  whose  poems 
he  made  it  a  matter  of  conscience  to  read  once  every 
four  years,  —  Plautus,  Suetonius,  Plutarch,  Tacitus, 
and  Lucian,  down  through  Boccaccio  and  Don  Quix- 
ote, which  he  knew  by  heart  and  from  the  living 
Spanish,  to  Joseph  Andrews,  the  Spectator,  Goldsmith 
and  Swift,  Miss  Austen,  Miss  Edgeworth,  and  Miss 
Ferrier,  Gait  and  Sir  Walter,  —  he  was  as  familiar 
with,  as  with  David  Crockat  the  nailer,  or  the  parish 
minister,  the  town-drummer,  the  mole-catcher,  or  the 
poaching  weaver,  who  had  the  night  before  leistered 
a  prime  kipper  at  Rachan  Mill,  by  the  flare  of  a  tarry 
wisp,  or  brought  home  his  surreptitious  gray  hen  or 


146  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

maukin  from  the  wilds  of  Dunsyre  or   the  dreary 
Lang  Whang.1 

This  singular  man  came  to  the  manse  every  Friday 
evening  for  many  years,  and  he  and  my  father  dis- 
cussed everything  and  everybody  ;  —  beginning  with 
tough,  strong  headwork  —  a  bout  at  wrestling,  be  it 
Caesar's  Bridge,  the  Epistles  of  Phalaris,  the  import 
of  yu,eV  and  Se,  the  Catholic  Question,  or  the  great  roots 
of  Christian  faith  ;  ending  with  the  latest  joke  in  the 
town  or  the  West  Haw,  the  last  effusion  by  Affleck, 
tailor  and  poet,  the  last  blunder  of  ./Esop  the  apothe- 
cary, and  the  last  repartee  of  the  village  fool,  with 
the  week's  Edinburgh  and  Glasgow  news  by  their 
respective  carriers ;  the  whole  little  life,  sad  and 
humorous  —  who  had  been  born,  and  who  was  dying 
or  dead,  married  or  about  to  be,  for  the  past  eight 
days.2 

This  amused,  and,  in  the  true  sense,  diverted  my 
father,  and  gratified  his  curiosity,  which  was  great, 
and  his  love  of  men,  as  well  as  for  man.  He  was 

1  With  the  practices  of  this  last  worthy,  when  carried  on 
moderately,    and   for    the    sport's   sake,   he    had    a    special 
sympathy. 

2  I  believe  this  was  the  true  though  secret  source  of  much 
of  my  father's  knowledge  of  the  minute  personal  history  of 
every  one  in  his  region,  which,  —  to  his  people  knowing  his  re- 
served manner  and  his  devotion  to  his  studies,  and  his  so  rarely 
meeting  them  or  speaking  to  them  except  from  the  pulpit,  or 
at  a  diet  of  visitation,  was  a  perpetual  wonder,  and  of  which 
he  made  great  use  in  his  dealings  with  his  afflicted  or  erring 
"  members." 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  147 

shy,  and  unwilling  to  ask  what  he  longed  to  know, 
liking  better  to  have  it  given  him  without  the  asking ; 
and  no  one  could  do  this  better  than  "  Uncle  John- 
ston." 

You  may  readily  understand  what  a  thorough  ex- 
ercise and  diversion  of  an  intellectual  and  social  kind 
this  was,  for  they  were  neither  of  them  men  to  shirk 
from  close  gripes,  or  trifle  and  flourish  with  their 
weapons ;  they  laid  on  and  spared  not.  And  then 
my  uncle  had  generally  some  special  nut  of  his  own 
to  crack,  some  thesis  to  fling  down  and  offer  battle  on, 
some  "  particle  "  to  energize  upon  ;  for  though  quiet 
and  calm,  he  was  thoroughly  combative,  and  enjoyed 
seeing  his  friend's  blood  up,  and  hearing  his  emphatic 
and  bright  speech,  and  watching  his  flashing  eye. 
Then  he  never  spared  him  ;  criticised  and  sometimes 
quizzed  —  for  he  had  great  humor  —  his  style,  as  well 
as  debated  and  weighed  his  apprehendings  and  ex- 
egeses, shaking  them  heartily  to  test  their  strength. 
He  was  so  thoroughly  independent  of  all  authority, 
except  that  of  reason  and  truth,  and  his  own  humor ; 
so  ready  to  detect  what  was  weak,  extravagant,  or 
unfair ;  so  full  of  relish  for  intellectual  power  and 
accuracy ;  and  so  attached  to  and  proud  of  my  father, 
and  bent  on  his  making  the  best  of  himself,  that  this 
trial  was  never  relaxed.  His  firm  and  close-grained 
mind  was  a  sort  of  whetstone  on  which  my  father 
sharpened  his  wits  at  this  weekly  "  setting." 

The  very  difference  of  their  mental  tempers  and 
complexions  drew  them  together  —  the  one  impatient, 


148  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

nervous,  earnest,  instant,  swift,  vehement,  regardless 
of  exertion,  bent  on  his  goal,  like  a  thorough-bred 
racer,  pressing  to  the  mark  ;  the  other  leisurely  to 
slowness  and  provokingness,  with  a  constitution  which 
could  stand  a  great  deal  of  ease,  unimpassioned,  still, 
clear,  untroubled  by  likings  or  dislikings.  dwelling 
and  working  in  thought  and  speculation  and  observa- 
tion as  ends  in  themselves,  and  as  their  own  rewards  : 1 
the  one  hunting  for  a  principle  or  a  "divine  method  ;  " 
the  other  sapping  or  shelling  from  a  distance,  and  for 
his  pleasure,  a  position,  or  gaining  a  point,  or  settling 
a  rule,  or  verifying  a  problem,  or  getting  axiomatic 
and  proverbial. 

In  appearance  they  were  as  curiously  unlike ;  my 
uncle  short  and  round  to  rotundity,  homely  and  florid 
in  feature.  I  used  to  think  Socrates  must  have  been 
like  him  in  visage  as  well  as  in  much  of  his  mind. 

1  He  was  curiously  destitute  of  all  literary  ambition  or  show; 
like  the  cactus  in  the  desert,  always  plump,  always  taking  in 
the  dew  of  heaven,  and  caring  little  to  give  it  out.  He  wrote 
many  papers  in  the  Repository  and  Monitor,  an  acute  and 
clever  tract  on  the  Voluntary  controversy,  entitled  Calm 
Answers  to  Angry  Questions,  and  was  the  author  of  a  capital 
bit  of  literary  banter  —  a  Congratulatory  Letter  to  the  Minis- 
ter of  Liberton,  who  had  come  down  upon  my  father  in  a 
pamphlet,  for  his  sermon  on  "  There  remaineth  much  land  to 
be  possessed."  It  is  a  mixture  of  Swift  and  Arbuthnot.  I 
remember  one  of  the  flowers  he  culls  from  him  he  is  congratu- 
lating, in  which  my  father  is  characterized  as  one  of  those 
"  shallow,  sallow  souls  that  would  swallow  the  bait,  without 
pRrceiving  the  cloven  foot !  "  But  a  man  like  this  never  is 
best  in  a  book ;  he  is  always  greater  than  his  work. 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  149 

He  was  careless  in  his  dress,  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
as  a  rule,  and  strenuous  only  in  smoking  or  in  sleep ; 
with  a  large,  full  skull,  a  humorous  twinkle  in  his  cold, 
blue  eye,  a  soft,  low  voice,  expressing  every  kind  of 
thought  in  the  same,  sometimes  plaguily  douce  tone ; 
a  great  power  of  quiet  and  telling  sarcasm,  large 
capacity  of  listening  to  and  of  enjoying  other  men's 
talk,  however  small. 

My  father  —  tall,  slim,  agile,  quick  in  his  move- 
ments, graceful,  neat  to  nicety  in  his  dress,  with 
much  in  his  air  of  what  is  called  style,  with  a  face 
almost  too  beautiful  for  a  man's,  had  not  his  eyes 
commanded  it  and  all  who  looked  at  it,  and  his  close, 
firm  mouth  been  ready  to  say  what  the  fiery  spirit 
might  bid  ;  his  eyes,  when  at  rest,  expressing  —  more 
than  almost  any  other's  I  ever  saw  —  sorrow  and 
tender  love,  a  desire  to  give  and  to  get  sympathy, 
and  a  sort  of  gentle,  deep  sadness,  as  if  that  was  their 
permanent  state,  and  gladness  their  momentary  act ; 
but  when  awakened,  full  of  fire,  peremptory,  and  not 
to  be  trifled  with  ;  and  his  smile,  and  flash  of  gayety 
and  fun,  something  no  one  could  forget ;  his  hair  in 
early  life  a  dead  black ;  his  eyebrows  of  exquisite 
curve,  narrow  and  intense ;  his  voice  deep  when  un- 
moved and  calm ;  keen  and  sharp  to  piercing  fierce- 
ness when  vehement  and  roused  —  in  the  pulpit,  at 
times  a  shout,  at  times  a  pathetic  wail ;  his  utterance 
hesitating,  emphatic,  explosive,  powerful,  —  each  sen- 
tence shot  straight  and  home  ;  his  hesitation  arising 
from  his  crowd  of  impatient  ideas,  and  his  resolute 


150  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

will  that  they  should  come  in  their  order,  and  some 
of  them  not  come  at  all,  only  the  best,  and  his  settled 
determination  that  each  thought  should  be  dressed  in 
the  veiy  and  only  word  which  he  stammered  on  till  it 
came,  —  it  was  generally  worth  his  pains  and  ours. 

Uncle  Johnston,  again,  flowed  on  like  Caesar's  Arar, 
incredibili  lenitate,  or  like  linseed  out  of  a  poke. 
You  can  easily  fancy  the  spiritual  and  bodily  contrast 
of  these  men,  and  can  fancy,  too,  the  kind  of  engage- 
ments they  would  have  with  their  own  proper  weapons 
on  these  Friday  evenings,  in  the  old  manse  dining- 
room,  my  father  showing  uncle  out  into  the  darkness 
of  the  back-road,  and  uncle,  doubtless,  lighting  his 
black  and  ruminative  pipe. 

If  my  uncle  brought  up  nuts  to  crack,  my  father 
was  sure  to  have  some  difficulties  to  consult  about,  or 
some  passages  to  read,  something  that  made  him  put 
his  whole  energy  forth ;  and  when  he  did  so,  I  never 
heard  such  reading.  To  hear  him  read  the  story  of 
Joseph,  or  passages  in  David's  history,  and  Psalms 
6th,  llth,  and  15th,  or  the  52d,  53d,  54th,  55th,  63d, 
64th,  and  40th  chapters  of  Isaiah,  or  the  Sermon  on 
the  Mount,  or  the  Journey  to  Emmaus,  or  our  Saviour's 
prayer  in  John,  or  Paul's  speech  on  Mars'  Hill,  or 
the  first  three  chapters  of  Hebrews  and  the  latter 
part  of  the  llth  of  Job,  or  the  Apocalypse ;  or,  to 
pass  from  those  divine  themes,  Jeremy  Taylor,  or 
George  Herbert,  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  or  Milton's 
prose,  such  as  the  passage  beginning  "  Come  forth 
out  of  thy  royal  chambers,  O  thou  Prince  of  all  the 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  151 

kings  of  the  earth !  "  and  "  Truth,  indeed,  came  once 
into  the  world  with  her  divine  Master,"  or  Charles 
Wesley's  Hymns,  or,  most  loved  of  all,  Cowper,  from 
the  rapt  "  Come  thou,  and,  added  to  thy  many  crowns," 
or  ''  O  that  those  lips  had  language ! "  to  the  Jack- 
daw, and  his  incomparable  Letters  ;  or  Gray's  Poems, 
Burns's  Tarn  O'Shanter,  or  Sir  Walter's  Eve  of  St. 
John,1  and  The  Gray  Brother. 

But  I  heg  your  pardon :  Time  has  run  back  with 
me,  and  fetched  that  blessed  past,  and  awakened  its 
echoes.  I  hear  his  voice ;  I  feel  his  eye ;  I  see  his 
whole  nature  given  up  to  what  he  is  reading,  and 
making  its  very  soul  speak. 

Such  a  man,  then,  as  I  have  sketched,  or  washed 
faintly  in,  as  the  painters  say,  was  that  person  who 
sat  in  the  corner  under  the  gallery  every  Sabbath-day, 
and  who  knew  his  Greek  Testament  better  than  his 
minister.  He  is  dead,  too,  a  few  months  ago,  dying 
surrounded  with  his  cherished  hoard  of  books  of  all 
sizes,  times,  and  tongues,  —  tatterdemalion  many  ;  all 

J  Well  do  I  remember  when  driving  him  from  Melrose  to 
Kelso  long  ago,  we  came  near  Sandyknowe,  that  grim  tower 
of  Smailholm  standing  erect  like  a  warder  turned  to  stone, 
defying  time  and  change,  his  bursting  into  that  noble  ballad,  — 

"  The  Baron  of  Smaylho'me  rose  with  day, 

He  spurr'd  his  courser  on, 
Without  stop  or  stay,  down  the  rocky  way, 
That  leads  to  Brotherstone  ;  " 

and  pointing  out  the  "Watchfold  height,"  "  the  eiry  Beacon 
Hill,"  and  "Brotherstone." 


152  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

however  drawn  up  in  an  order  of  his  own ;  all  thor- 
oughly mastered  and  known ;  among  them  David 
Hume's  copy  of  Shaftesbury's  Characteristics,  with 
his  autograph,  which  he  had  picked  up  at  some  stall. 
I  have  said  that  my  mother's  death  was  the  second 
epoch  in  my  father's  life.  I  should  perhaps  have  said 
the  third ;  the  first  being  his  mother's  long  illness 
and  death,  and  the  second  his  going  to  Elie,  and  be- 
ginning the  battle  of  life  at  fifteen.  There  must 
have  been  something  very  delicate  and  close  and  ex- 
quisite in  the  relation  between  the  ailing,  silent,  beau- 
tiful, and  pensive  mother  and  that  dark-eyed,  dark- 
haired,  bright,  and  silent  son ;  a  sort  of  communion 
it  is  not  easy  to  express.  You  can  think  of  him  at 
eleven  slowly  writing  out  that  small  book  of  promises 
in  a  distinct  and  minute  hand,  quite  as  like  his  ma- 
ture hand,  as  the  shy,  lustrous-eyed  boy  was  to  his 
after-self  in  his  manly  years,  and  sitting  by  the  bed- 
side while  the  rest  were  out  and  shouting,  playing  at 
hide-and-seek  round  the  little  church,  with  the  winds 
from  Benlomond  or  the  wild  uplands  of  Ayrshire 
blowing  through  their  hair.  He  played  seldom,  but 
when  he  did  run  out,  he  jumped  higher  and  farther 
and  ran  faster  than  any  of  them.  His  peculiar 
beauty  must  have  come  from  his  mother.  He  used 
at  rare  times,  and  with  a  sort  of  shudder,  to  tell  of 
her  when  a  lovely  girl  of  fifteen,  having  been  seen 
by  a  gentleman  of  rank,  in  Cheapside,  hand  in  hand 
with  an  evil  woman,  who  was  decoying  her  to  ruin, 
on  pretense  of  showing  her  the  way  home ,  and  how 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  153 

he  stopped  his  carriage  and,  taking  in  the  unconscious 
girl,  drove  her  to  her  uncle's  door.  But  you  have 
said  all  this  better  than  I  can. 

His  time  with  his  mother,  and  the  necessary  con- 
finement and  bodily  depression  caused  by  it,  I  doubt 
not  deepened  his  native  thoughtful  turn,  and  his  ten- 
dency to  meditative  melancholy,  as  a  condition  under 
which  he  viewed  all  things,  and  quickened  and  inten- 
sified his  sense  of  the  suffering  of  this  world  and  of 
the  profound  seriousness  and  mystery  in  the  midst  of 
which  we  live  and  die. 

The  second  epoch  was  that  of  his  leaving  home 
with  his  guinea,  the  last  he  ever  got  from  any  one 
but  himself  ;  and  his  going  among  utter  strangers  to 
be  master  of  a  school  one  half  of  the  scholars  of 
which  were  bigger  and  older  than  himself,  and  all 
rough  colts  —  willful  and  unbroken.  This  was  his 
first  fronting  of  the  world.  Besides  supporting  him- 
self, this  knit  the  sinews  of  his  mind,  and  made  him 
rely  on  himself  in  action  as  well  as  in  thought.  He 
sometimes,  but  not  often,  spoke  of  this,  never  lightly, 
though  he  laughed  at  some  of  his  predicaments.  He 
could  not  forget  the  rude  shock.  Generally  those 
familiar  revelations  were  at  supper,  on  the  Sabbath 
evening,  when,  his  work  over,  he  enjoyed  and  lin- 
gered over  his  meal. 

From  his  young  and  slight,  almost  girlish  look, 
and  his  refined,  quiet  manners,  the  boys  of  the  school 
were  inclined  to  annoy  and  bully  him.  He  saw  this, 
and  felt  it  was  now  or  never,  —  nothing  between.  So 


154  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

he  took  his  line.  The  biggest  boy,  much  older  and 
stronger,  was  the  rudest,  and  infected  the  rest.  The 
"  wee  malster "  ordered  him,  in  that  peremptory 
voice  we  all  remember,  to  stand  up  and  hold  out  his 
hand,  being  not  at  all  sure  but  the  big  fellow  might 
knock  him  down  on  the  word.  To  the  astonishment 
of  the  school,  and  to  the  big  rebel's  too,  he  obeyed 
and  was  punished  on  the  instant,  and  to  the  full ;  out 
went  the  hand,  down  came  the  "  taivs  "  and  bit  like 
fire.  From  that  moment  he  ruled  them  by  his  eye, 
the  taws  vanished. 

There  was  an  incident  at  this  time  of  his  life  which 
I  should  perhaps  not  tell,  and  yet  I  don't  know  why 
I  should  n't,  it  so  perfectly  illustrates  his  character  in 
many  ways.  He  had  come  home  during  the  vaca- 
tion of  his  school  to  Langrig,  and  was  about  to  go 
back  ;  he  had  been  renewing  his  intercourse  with  his 
old  teacher  and  friend  whom  you  mention,  from 
whom  he  used  to  say  he  learned  to  like  Shakespeare, 
and  who  seems  to  have  been  a  man  of  genuine  liter- 
ary tastes.  He  went  down  to  bid  him  good-by,  and 
doubtless  they  got  on  their  old  book  loves,  and  would 
be  spouting  their  pet  pieces.  The  old  dominie  said, 
"  John,  my  man,  if  you  are  walking  into  Edinburgh, 
I  '11  convoy  you  a  bit."  "'John  "  was  too  happy,  so 
next  morning  they  set  off,  keeping  up  a  constant  fire 
of  quotation  and  eager  talk.  They  got  past  Mid- 
Calder  to  near  East,  when  my  father  insisted  on  his 
friend  returning,  and  also  on  going  back  a  bit  with 
him  ;  on  looking  at  the  eld  man,  he  thought  he  was 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  155 

tired,  so  on  reaching  the  well-known  "  Kippen's  Inn," 
he  stopped  and  insisted  on  giving  him  some  refresh- 
ment. Instead  of  ordering  bread  and  cheese  and  a 
bottle  of  ale,  he,  doubtless  full  of  Shakespeare,  and 
great  upon  sack  and  canary,  ordered  a  bottle  of  wine  ! 
Of  this,  you  may  be  sure,  the  dominie,  as  he  most 
needed  it,  had  the  greater  share,  and  doubtless  it 
warmed  the  cockles  of  his  old  heart.  "  John  "  mak- 
ing him  finish  the  bottle,  and  drink  the  health  of 
"  Gentle  Will,"  saw  him  off,  and  went  in  to  pay  the 
reckoning.  What  did  he  know  of  the  price  of  wine  ! 
It  took  exactly  every  penny  he  had.  I  doubt  not, 
most  boys,  knowing  that  the  landlord  knew  them, 
would  have  either  paid  a  part,  or  asked  him  to  score 
it  up.  This  was  not  his  way  ;  he  was  too  proud  and 
shy  and  honest  for  such  an  expedient.  By  this  time, 
what  with  discussing  Shakespeare,  and  witnessing  his 
master's  leisurely  emptying  of  that  bottle,  and  re- 
leasing the 

"  Dear  prisoned  spirits  of  the  impassioned  grape," 
he  found  he  must  run  for  it  to  Edinburgh,  or  rather 
Leith,  fourteen  miles  ;  this  he  did,  and  was  at  the 
pier  just  in  time  to  jump  into  the  Elie  pinnace,  which 
was  already  off.  He  often  -wondered  what  he  would 
have  done  if  he  had  been  that  one  moment  late. 
You  can  easily  pick  out  the  qualities  this  story  un- 
folds. 

His  nature,  capable  as  it  was  of  great,  persistent, 
and  indeed  dogged  labor,  was,  from  the  predominance 
of  the  nervous  system  in  his  organization,  excitable, 


156  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

and  therefore  needed  and  relished  excitement  —  the 
more  intense  the  better.  He  found  this  in  his  keen 
political  tastes,  in  imaginative  literature,  and  in  fiction. 
In  the  highest  kind  of  poetry  he  enjoyed  the  sweet 
pain  of  tears ;  and  he  all  his  life  had  a  steady  liking, 
even  a  hunger,  for  a  good  novel.  This  refreshed, 
lightened,  and  diverted  his  mind  from  the  strain  of 
his  incessant  exegesis.  He  used  always  to  say  that 
Sir  Walter  and  Goldsmith,  and  even  Fielding,  Miss 
Edgeworth,  Miss  Austen,  and  Miss  Ferrier,  were  true 
benefactors  to  the  race,  by  giving  such  genuine,  such 
secure  and  innocent  pleasure ;  and  he  often  repeated 
with  admiration  Lord  Jeffrey's  words  on  Scott,  in- 
scribed on  his  monument.  He  had  no  turn  for  gar- 
dening or  for  fishing  or  any  field  sports  or  games  ;  his 
sensitive  nature  recoiled  from  the  idea  of  pain,  and 
above  all,  needless  pain.  He  used  to  say  the  lower 
creation  had  groans  enough,  and  needed  no  more  bur- 
dens ;  indeed,  he  was  fierce  to  some  measure  of  un- 
fairness against  such  of  his  brethren  —  Dr.  Wardlaw, 
for  instance  1  —  as  resembled  the  apostles  in  fishing 
for  other  things  besides  men. 

But  the  exercise  and  the  excitement  he  most  of  all 
others  delighted  in  was  riding  ;  and  had  he  been  a 
country  gentleman  and  not  a  clergyman,  I  don't  think 
he  could  have  resisted  fox-hunting.  With  the  excep- 
tion of  that  great  genius  in  more  than  horsemanship, 

1  After  a  tight  discussion  between  these  two  attached  friends, 
Dr.  Wardlaw  said,  "  Well,  I  can't  answer  you,  but  fish  I  must 
and  shall." 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  157 

Andrew  Ducrow,  I  never  saw  a  man  sit  a  horse  as  he 
did.  He  seemed  inspired,  gay,  erect,  full  of  the  joy 
of  life,  fearless,  and  secure.  I  have  heard  a  farmer 
friend  say  if  he  had  not  been  a  preacher  of  the  gospel 
he  would  have  heen  a  cavalry  officer,  and  would  have 
fought  as  he  preached. 

He  was  known  all  over  the  Upper  Ward  and  down 
Tweeddale  for  his  riding.  "  There  goes  the  minister," 
as  he  rode  past  at  a  swift  canter.  He  had  generally 
well-bred  horses,  or,  as  I  would  now  call  them,  ponies  ; 
if  he  had  not,  his  sufferings  from  a  dull,  hardmouthed, 
heavy-hearted  and  footed,  plebeian  horse  were  almost 
comic.  On  his  gray  mare,  or  his  little  blood  bay 
horse,  to  see  him  setting  off  and  indulging  it  and  him- 
self in  some  alarming  gambols,  and  in  the  midst  of 
his  difficulties,  partly  of  his  own  making,  taking  off 
his  hat  or  kissing  his  hand  to  a  lady,  made  one  think 
of  "  young  Harry  with  his  beaver  up."  He  used  to 
tell  with  much  relish,  how,  one  fine  summer  Sabbath 
evening  after  preaching  in  the  open  air  for  a  collec- 
tion, in  some  village  near,  and  having  put  the  money, 
chiefly  halfpence,  into  his  handkerchief,  and  that  into 
his  hat,  he  was  taking  a  smart  gallop  home  across  the 
moor,  happy  and  relieved,  when  three  ladies  —  I 
think  the  Miss  Bertrams  of  Kersewell  —  came  sud- 
denly upon  him  ;  off  went  the  hat,  down  bent  the 
head,  and  over  him  streamed  the  cherished  collection, 
the  ladies  busy  among  the  wild  grass  and  heather 
picking  it  up,  and  he  full  of  droll  confusion  and 
laughter. 


158  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

The  gray  mare  he  had  for  many  years.  I  can  re- 
member her  small  head  and  large  eyes ;  her  neat, 
compact  body,  round  as  a  barrel ;  her  finely  flea-bitten 
skin,  and  her  thorough-bred  legs.  I  have  no  doubt 
she  had  Arabian  blood.  My  father's  pride  in  her 
was  quite  curious.  Many  a  wild  ride  to  and  from  the 
Presbytery  at  Lanark,  and  across  flooded  and  shifting 
fords,  he  had  on  her.  She  was  as  sweet-tempered  and 
enduring,  as  she  was  swift  and  sure ;  and  her  powers 
of  running  were  appreciated  and  applied  in  a  way 
which  he  was  both  angry  and  amused  to  discover. 
You  know  what  riding  the  bruse  means.  At  a  country 
wedding  the  young  men  have  a  race  to  the  bride- 
groom's home,  and  he  who  wins  brings  out  a  bottle 
and  glass  and  drinks  the  young  wife's  health.  I  wish 
Burns  had  described  a  bruse :  all  sorts  of  steeds, 
wild,  unkempt  lads  as  Avell  as  colts,  old  broken-down 
thorough-breds  that  did  wonders  when  soopled,  huge, 
grave  cart-horses  devouring  the  road  with  their  shaggy 
hoofs,  willful  ponies,  etc.  You  can  imagine  the  wild 
hurry-scurry  and  fun,  the  cornic  situations  and  upsets 
over  a  rough  road,  up  and  down  places  one  would  be 
giddy  to  look  at. 

Well,  the  young  farmers  were  in  the  habit  of  com- 
ing to  my  father,  and  asking  the  loan  of  the  mare  to 
go  and  see  a  friend,  etc.,  etc.,  praising  knowingly  the 
fine  points  and  virtues  of  his  darling.  Having  tlirough 
life,  with  all  his  firmness  of  nature,  an  abhorrence  of 
saying  "  No "  to  any  one,  the  interview  generally 
ended  with,  "  Well,  Robert,  you  may  have  her,  but 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  159 

take  care  of  her,  and  don't  ride  her  fast."  In  an 
hour  or  two  Robert  was  riding  the  bruse,  and  flying 
away  from  the  crowd,  Gray  first,  and  the  rest  no- 
where, and  might  be  seen  turning  the  corner  of  the 
farmhouse  with  the  victorious  bottle  in  his  uplifted 
hand,  the  motley  pack  panting  vainly  up  the  hill. 
This  went  on  for  long,  and  the  gray  was  famous,  al- 
most notorious,  all  over  the  Upper  Ward ;  sometimes 
if  she  appeared,  no  one  would  start,  and  she  trotted 
the  course.  Partly  from  his  own  personal  abstraction 
from  outward  country  life,  and  partly  from  Uncle 
Johnston's  sense  of  waggery  keeping  him  from  telling 
his  friend  of  the  gray's  last  exploit  at  Hartree  Mill, 
or  her  leaping  over  the  "  best  man  "  at  Thriepland, 
my  father  was  the  last  to  hear  of  this  equivocal  glory 
of  "  the  minister's  meer."  Indeed,  it  was  whispered 
she  had  once  won  a  whip  at  Lanark  races.  They  still 
tell  of  his  feats  on  this  fine  creature,  one  of  which  he 
himself  never  alluded  to  without  a  feeling  of  shame. 
He  had  an  engagement  to  preach  somewhere  beyond 
the  Clyde  on  a  Sabbath  evening,  and  his  excellent  and 
attached  friend  and  elder,  Mr.  Kello,  of  Lindsay-lands, 
accompanied  him  on  his  big  plough  horse.  It  was  to 
be  in  the  open  air,  on  the  river  side.  When  they  got 
to  the  Clyde  they  found  it  in  full  flood,  heavy  and 
sudden  rains  at  the  head  of  the  water  having  brought 
it  down  in  a  wild  spate.  On  the  opposite  side  were 
the  gathered  people  and  the  tent.  Before  Mr.  Kello 
knew  where  he  was,  there  was  his  minister  on  the 
mare  swimming  across,  and  carried  down  in  a  long 


160  MY   FATHER'S   MEMOIR. 

diagonal,  the  people  looking  on  in  terror.  He  landed, 
shook  himself,  and  preached  with  his  usual  fervor. 
As  I  have  said,  he  never  liked  to  speak  of  this  hit  of 
hardihood,  and  he  never  repeated  it ;  but  it  was  like 
the  man  —  there  were  the  people,  that  was  what  he 
would  be  at,  and  though  timid  for  anticipated  danger 
as  any  woman,  in  it  he  was  without  fear. 

One  more  illustration  of  his  character  in  connection 
with  his  riding.  On  coming  to  Edinburgh  he  gave 
up  this  kind  of  exercise  ;  he  had  no  occasion  for  it, 
and  he  had  enough,  and  more  than  enough  of  excite- 
ment in  the  public  questions  in  which  he  found  him- 
self involved,  and  in  the  miscellaneous  activities  of  a 
popular  town  minister.  I  was  then  a  young  doctor 
—  it  must  have  been  about  1840  —  and  had  a  patient, 
Mrs.  James  Robertson,  eldest  daughter  of  Mr.  Pirie, 
the  predecessor  of  Dr.  Dick  in  what  was  then 
Shuttle  Street  congregation,  Glasgow.  She  was  one 
of  my  father's  earliest  and  dearest  friends,  —  a  mo- 
ther in  the  Burgher  Israel,  she  and  her  cordial  hus- 
band "  given  to  hospitality,"  especially  to  "  the 
Prophets."  She  was  hopelessly  ill  at  Juniper  Green, 
near  Edinburgh.  Mr.  George  Stone,  then  living  at 
Muirhouse,  one  of  my  father's  congregation  in  Brough- 
ton  Place,  a  man  of  equal  originality  and  worth,  and 
devoted  to  his  minister,  knowing  my  love  of  riding, 
offered  me  his  blood-chestnut  to  ride  out  and  make 
my  visit.  My  father  said,  "  John,  if  you  are  going,  I 
would  like  to  ride  out  with  you ;  "  he  wished  to  see 
his  dying  friend.  "  You  ride  !  "  said  Mr.  Stone,  who 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  161 

was  a  very  Yorkshireman  in  the  matter  of  horses. 
"  Let  him  try,"  said  I.  The  upshot  was,  that  Mr. 
Stone  sent  the  chestnut  for  me,  and  a  sedate  pony 
—  called,  if  I  forget  not,  Goliath  —  for  his  minister, 
with  all  sorts  of  injunctions  to  me  to  keep  him  off 
the  thorough-bred,  and  on  Goliath. 

My  father  had  not  been  on  a  horse  for  nearly 
twenty  years.  He  mounted  and  rode  off.  He  soon 
got  teased  with  the  short,  pattering  steps  of  Goliath, 
and  looked  wistfully  up  at  me,  and  longingly  to  the 
tall  chestnut,  stepping  once  for  Goliath's  twice,  like 
the  Don  striding  beside  Sancho.  I  saw  what  he  was 
after,  and  when  past  the  toll  he  said  ip  a  mild  sort  of 
way,  "  John,  did  you  promise  absolutely  I  was  not  to 
ride  your  horse  ?  "  "  No,  father,  certainly  not.  Mr. 
Stone,  I  dare  say,  wished  me  to  do  so,  but  I  did  n't." 
"  Well,  then,  I  think  we  '11  change  ;  this  beast  shakes 
me."  So  we  changed.  I  remember  how  noble  he 
looked ;  how  at  home  :  his  white  hair  and  his  dark 
eyes,  his  erect,  easy,  accustomed  seat.  He  soon  let 
his  eager  horse  slip  gently  away.  It  was  first  evasit, 
he  was  off,  Goliath  and  I  jogging  on  behind ;  then, 
erupit,  and  in  a  twinkling  —  evanuit.  I  saw  them 
last  flashing  through  the  arch  under  the  Canal,  his 
white  hair  flying.  I  was  uneasy,  though  from  his 
riding  I  knew  he  was  as  yet  in  command,  so  I  put 
Goliath  to  his  best,  and  having  passed  through  Slate- 
ford,  I  asked  a  stonebreaker  if  he  saw  a  gentleman 
on  a  chestnut  horse.  "'  Has  he  white  hair  ?  "  u  Yes." 
"And  een  like  a  gled's ? "  "Yes."  "Weel  then, 


162  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

he  's  fleein'  up  the  road  like  the  wund ;  he  '11  be  at 
Little  Vantage  (about  nine  miles  off)  in  nae  time  if 
he  baud  on."  I  never  once  sighted  him,  but  on  com- 
ing into  Juniper  Green  there  was  his  steaming  chest- 
nut at  the  gate,  neighing  cheerily  to  Goliath.  I  went 
in,  he  was  at  the  bedside  of  his  friend,  and  in  the 
midst  of  prayer ;  his  words  as  I  entered  were, 
"  When  thou  passest  through  the  waters  I  will  be 
with  thee,  and  through  the  rivers,  they  shall  not 
overflow  thee  ;  "  and  he  was  not  in  the  least  instant  in 
prayer  that  his  blood  was  up  with  his  ride.  He  never 
again  saw  Mrs.  Robertson,  or  as  she  was  called  when 
they  were  young,  Sibbie  (Sibella)  Pirie.  On  coming 
out  he  said  nothing,  but  took  the  chestnut,  mounted 
her,  and  we  came  home  quietly.  His  heart  was 
opened ;  he  spoke  of  old  times  and  old  friends ;  he 
stopped  at  the  exquisite  view  at  Hailes  into  the  val- 
ley, and  up  the  Pentlands  beyond,  the  smoke  of 
Kate's  Mill  rising  in  the  still  and  shadowy  air,  and 
broke  out  into  Cowper's  words,  "  Yes,  — 

"  HE  sets  the  bright  procession  on  its  way, 
And  marshals  all  the  order  of  the  year  ; 
And  ere  one  flowery  season  fades  and  dies, 
Designs  the  blooming  wonders  of  the  next" 

Then  as  we  came  slowly  in,  the  moon  shone  behind 
Craiglockhart  hill,  among  the  old  Scotch  firs ;  he 
pulled  up  again,  and  gave  me  Collins's  Ode  of  E veil- 
ing, beginning,  — 


MY   FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  163 

"  If  aught  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song, 
May  hope,  chaste  Eve,  to  soothe  thy  modest  ear, 
Thy  springs,  and  dying  gales  ;  ' ' 

repeating  over  and  over  some  of  the  lines,  as 

"  Thy  modest  ear, 
Thy  springs,  and  dying  gales." 

—  "  And  marks  o'er  all 
Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 
The  gradual  dusky  veil." 

And   when   she  looked   out   on    us    clear   and   full, 
"  Yes,  — 

"  The  moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale, 
And  nightly  to  the  listening  earth 
Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth." 

As  we  passed  through  Slateford,  he  spoke  of  Dr. 
Belfrage,  his  great-hearted  friend,  of  his  obligations 
to  him,  and  of  his  son,  my  friend,  both  lying  together 
in  Colinton  churchyard ;  and  of  Dr.  Dick,  who  was 
minister  before  him,  of  the  Coventrys,  and  of  Stitchel 
and  Sprouston,  of  his  mother,  and  of  himself,  —  his 
doubts  of  his  own  sincerity  in  religion,  his  sense  of 
sin,  of  God,  —  reverting  often  to  his  dying  friend. 
Such  a  thing  only  occurred  to  me  with  him  once  or 
twice  all  my  life  ;  and  then  when  we  were  home,  he 
was  silent,  shut  up,  self  -  contained  as  before.  He 
was  himself  conscious  of  this  habit  of  reticence,  and 
what  may  be  called  selfism  to  us,  his  children,  and  la- 
mented it.  I  remember  his  saying  in  a  sort  of  mourn- 
ful joke,  "  I  have  a  well  of  love  ;  I  know  it  ;  but  it 
is  a  well,  and  a  draw-well,  to  your  sorrow  and  mine. 


164  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

and  it  seldom  overflows,  but,"  looking  with  that 
strange  power  of  tenderness  as  if  he  put  his  voice 
and  his  heart  into  his  eyes,  "you  may  always  come 
hither  to  draw ; "  he  used  to  say  he  might  take  to 
himself  Wordsworth's  lines,  — 

"  I  am  not  one  who  much  or  oft  delights 
To  season  my  fireside  with  personal  talk." 

And  changing  "  though  "  into  "  if,"  — 

"  A  well  of  love  it  may  be  deep, 
I  trust  it  is,  and  never  dry ; 
What  matter,  though  its  waters  sleep 
In  silence  and  obscurity  ?  " 

The  expression  of  his  affection  was  more  like  the 
shock  of  a  Leyden  jar  than  the  continuous  current  of 
a  galvanic  circle. 

There  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  permanent  chill  given 
by  my  mother's  death,  to  what  may  be  called  the 
outer  surface  of  his  nature,  and  we  at  home  felt  it 
much.  The  blood  was  thrown  in  upon  the  centre, 
and  went  forth  in  energetic  and  victorious  work,  in 
searching  the  Scriptures  and  saving  souls ;  but  his 
social  faculty  never  recovered  that  shock !  it  was 
blighted  ;  he  was  always  desiring  to  be  alone  and  at 
his  work.  A  stranger  who  saw  him  for  a  short  time, 
bright,  animated,  full  of  earnest  and  cordial  talk, 
pleasing  and  being  pleased,  the  life  of  the  company, 
was  apt  to  think  how  delightful  he  must  always  be,  — 
and  so  he  was  ;  but  these  times  of  bright  talk  were 
like  angels'  visits ;  and  he  smiled  with  peculiar  benig- 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  165 

nity  on  his  retiring  guest,  as  if  blessing  him  not  the 
less  for  leaving  him  to  himself.  I  question  if  there 
ever  lived  a  man  so  much  in  the  midst  of  men  and  in 
the  midst  of  his  own  children,1  in  whom  the  silences, 
as  Mr.  Carlyle  would  say,  were  so  predominant. 
Every  Sabbath  he  spoke  out  of  the  abundance  of  his 
heart  his  whole  mind ;  he  was  then  communicative 
and  frank  enough  :  all  the  week,  before  and  after, 
he  would  not  unwillingly  have  never  opened  his 
mouth.  Of  many  people  we  may  say  that  their 
mouth  is  always  open  except  when  it  is  shut ;  of  him 
that  his  mouth  was  always  shut  except  when  it  was 
opened.  Every  one  must  have  been  struck  with  the 
seeming  inconsistency  of  his  occasional  brilliant, 
happy,  energetic  talk,  and  his  habitual  silentness,  — 
his  difficulty  in  getting  anything  to  say.  But,  as  I 
have  already  said,  what  we  lost,  the  world  and  the 
church  gained. 

When  traveling  he  was  always  in  high  spirits  and 
full  of  anecdote  and  fun.  Indeed  I  knew  more  of 
his  inner  history  in  this  one  way  than  during  years 
of  living  with  him.  I  recollect  his  taking  me  with 
him  to  Glasgow  when  I  must  have  been  about  four- 
teen ;  we  breakfasted  in  "  The  Ram's  Horn  Tav- 
ern," and  I  felt  a  new  respect  for  him  at  his  com- 
manding the  waiters.  He  talked  a  great  deal  during 
our  short  tour,  and  often  have  I  desired  to  recall  the 
many  things  he  told  me  of  his  early  life,  and  of  his 
own  religious  crises,  my  mother's  death,  his  fear  of 
1  He  gave  us  all  the  education  we  got  at  Biggar. 


166  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

his  own  death,  and  all  this  intermingled  with  the 
drollest  stories  of  his  boy  and  student  life. 

We  went  to  Paisley  and  dined,  I  well  remember, 
•we  two  alone,  and,  as  I  thought,  magnificently,  in  a 
great  apartment  in  "  The  Saracen's  Head,"  at  the 
end  of  which  was  the  county  ball-room.  We  had 
come  across  from  Dunoon  and  landed  in  a  small 
boat  at  the  Water  Neb  along  with  Mrs.  Dr.  Hall, 
a  character  Sir  Walter  or  Gait  would  have  made  im- 
mortal. My  father  with  characteristic  ardor  took  an 
oar,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  and  I  believe  for 
the  last,  to  help  the  old  boatman  on  the  Cart,  and 
wishing  to  do  something  decided,  missed  the  water, 
and  went  back  head  over  heels  to  the  immense  en- 
joyment of  Mrs.  Hall,  who  said,  "  Less  pith,  and 
mair  to  the  purpose,  my  man."  She  didn't  let  the 
joke  die  out. 

Another  time  —  it  was  when  his  second  marriage 
was  fixed  on,  to  our  great  happiness  and  his  —  I  had 
just  taken  my  degree  of  M.  D.,  and  he  took  Isabella, 
William,  and  myself  to  Moffat.  By  a  curious  felicity 
we  got  into  Miss  Geddes'  lodgings,  where  the  village 
circulating  library  was  kept,  the  whole  of  which  we 
aver  he  read  in  ten  days.  I  never  saw  him  so  happy, 
so  open  and  full  of  mirth,  reading  to  us,  and  reciting 
the  poetry  of  his  youth.  On  these  rare  but  delight- 
ful occasions  he  was  fond  of  exhibiting,  when  asked, 
his  powers  of  rapid  speaking,  in  which  he  might 
have  rivaled  old  Matthews  or  his  son.  His  favorite 
feat  was  repeating  "  Says  I  to  my  Lord,  quo'  I  — 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  167 

what  for  will  ye  no  grund  ma  barley-meal  mouter- 
free,  says  I  to  my  Lord,  quo'  I,  says  I,  I  says."  He 
was  brilliant  upon  the  final,  "I  says."  Another 
chef-d'oeuvre  was,  "  On  Tintock  tap  there  is  a  mist, 
and  in  the  mist  there  is  a  kist  (a  chest),  and  in  the 
kist  there  is  a  cap  (a  wooden  bowl),  and  in  the  cap 
there  is  a  drap,  tak'  up  the  cap,  and  sup  the  drap, 
and  set  the  cap  on  Tintock  tap."  This  he  could  say, 
if  I  mistake  not,  five  times  without  drawing  breath. 
It  was  a  favorite  passage  this,  and  he  often  threatened 
to  treat  it  exegetically  ;  laughing  heartily  when  I  said, 
in  that  case,  he  would  not  have  great  trouble  with  the 
context,  which  in  others  cost  him  a  good  deal. 

His  manners  to  ladies,  and  indeed  to  all  women, 
was  that  of  a  courtly  gentleman  ;  they  could  be  ro- 
mantic in  their  empressement  and  devotion,  and  I 
used  to  think  Sir  Philip  Sydney,  or  Ariosto's  knights 
and  the  Paladins  of  old,  must  have  looked  and 
moved  as  he  did.  He  had  great  pleasure  in  the  com- 
pany of  high  -  bred,  refined  thoughtful  women ;  and 
he  had  a  peculiar  sympathy  with  the  sufferings,  the 
necessary  mournfulness  of  women,  and  with  all  in 
their  lot  connected  with  tbe  fruit  of  that  forbidden 
tree  —  their  loneliness,  the  sorrows  of  their  time,  and 
their  pangs  in  travail,  their  peculiar  relation  to  their 
children.  I  think  I  hear  him  reading  the  words, 
"  Can  a  woman  forget  her  sucking  child,  that  she 
should  not  have  compassion  on  the  son  of  her  womb  ? 
Yea"  (as  if  it  was  the  next  thing  to  impossible)* 
11  she  may  forget,  yet  will  not  I  forget  thee."  In- 


168  MY    FATHER'S   MEMOIR. 

deed,  to  a  man  who  saw  so  little  of,  and  said  so  little 
to  his  own  children,  perhaps  it  may  be  because  of  all 
this,  his  sympathy  for  mothers  under  loss  of  children, 
his  real  suffering  for  their  suffering,  not  only  en- 
deared him  to  them  as  their  minister,  their  consoler, 
and  gave  him  opportunities  of  dropping  in  divine  and 
saving  truth  and  comfort,  when  the  heart  was  full 
and  soft,  tender,  and  at  his  mercy,  but  it  brought 
out  in  his  only  loss  of  this  kind  the  mingled  depth, 
tenderness,  and  also  the  peremptoriness  of  his  nature. 
In  the  case  of  the  death  of  little  Maggie  —  a  child 
the  very  image  of  himself  in  face,  lovely  and  pensive, 
and  yet  ready  for  any  fun,  with  a  keenness  of  affec- 
tion that  periled  everything  on  being  loved,  who 
must  cling  to  some  one  and  be  clasped,  made  for  a 
garden,  for  the  first  garden,  not  for  the  rough  world, 
the  child  of  his  old  age  —  this  peculiar  meeting  of 
opposites  was  very  marked.  She  was  stricken  with 
sudden  illness,  malignant  sore  throat ;  her  mother 
was  gone,  and  so  she  was  to  my  father  as  a  flower 
he  had  the  sole  keeping  of ;  and  his  joy  in  her  wild 
mirth,  his  watching  her  childish  moods  of  sadness,  as 
if  a  shadow  came  over  her  young  heaven,  were  them- 
selves something  to  watch.  Her  delicate  life  made 
no  struggle  with  disease  ;  it,  as  it  were,  declined  to 
stay  on  such  conditions.  She  therefore  sunk  at  once 
and  without  much  pain,  her  soul  quick  and  unclouded, 
and  her  little  forefinger  playing  to  the  last  with  my 
father's  silvery  curls,  her  eyes  trying  in  vain  to 
brighten  his :  — 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  169 

"  Thou  wert  a  dew-drop  which  the  morn  brings  forth, 
Not  fitted  to  he  trailed  along  the  soiling  earth ; 
But  at  the  touch  of  wrong,  without  a  strife, 
Slips  in  a  moment  out  of  life." 

His  distress,  his  anguish  at  this  stroke,  was  not  only 
intense,  it  was  in  its  essence  permanent ;  he  went 
mourning  and  looking  for  her  all  his  days ;  but  after 
she  was  dead,  that  resolved  will  compacted  him  in  an 
instant.  It  was  on  a  Sabbath  morning  she  died,  and 
he  was  all  day  at  church,  not  many  yards  from  where 
lay  her  little  corpse  alone  in  the  house.  His  colleague 
preached  in  the  forenoon,  and  in  the  afternoon  he  took 
his  turn,  saying  before  beginning  his  discourse :  "  It 
has  pleased  the  Father  of  Lights  to  darken  one  of  the 
lights  of  my  dwelling  —  had  the  child  lived  I  would 
have  remained  with  her,  but  now  I  have  thought  it 
right  to  arise  and  come  into  the  house  of  the  Lord  and 
worship."  Such  violence  to  one  part  of  his  nature  by 
that  in  it  which  was  supreme  injured  him  :  it  was 
like  pulling  up  on  the  instant  an  express  train ;  the 
whole  inner  organization  is  minutely,  though  it  may 
be  invisibly  hurt ;  its  molecular  constitution  damaged 
by  the  cruel  stress  and  strain.  Such  things  are  not 
right;  they  are  a  cruelty  and  injustice  and  injury 
from  the  soul  to  the  body,  its  faithful  slave,  and  they 
bring  down,  as  in  his  case  they  too  truly  did,  their 
own  certain  and  specific  retribution.  A  man  who 
did  not  feel  keenly  might  have  preached ;  a  man 
whose  whole  nature  was  torn,  shattered,  and  aston- 
ished as  his  was,  had  in  a  high  sense  no  right  so  to 


170  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

use  himself  ;  and  when  too  late  he  opened  his  eyes  to 
this.  It  was  part  of  our  old  Scottish  severe  unspar- 
ing character  —  calm  to  coldness  outside,  burning  to 
fierceness,  tender  to  agony,  within. 

I  was  saying  how  much  my  father  enjoyed  women's 
company.  He  liked  to  look  on  them,  and  watch 
them,  listening1  to  their  keen,  unconnected,  and  un- 
reasoning, but  not  unreasonable  talk.  Men's  argu- 
ment, or  rather  arguing,  and  above  all  debating,  he 
disliked.  He  had  no  turn  for  it.  He  was  not  com- 
bative, much  less  contentious.  He  was,  however, 
warlike.  Anything  that  he  could  destroy,  any  false- 
hood or  injustice,  he  made  for,  not  to  discuss,  but  to 
expose  and  kill.  He  could  not  fence  with  his  mind 
much  less  with  his  tongue,  and  had  no  love  for  the 
exploits  of  a  nimble  dialectic.  He  had  no  readiness 
either  in  thought  or  word  for  this  ;  his  way  was  slowly 
to  think  out  a  subject,  to  get  it  well  "  bottomed,"  as 
Locke  would  say  ;  he  was  not  careful  as  to  recording 
the  steps  he  took  in  their  order,  but  the  spirit  of  his 

1  One  day  my  mother  and  her  only  sister,  Agnes,  —  married 
to  James  Aitken,  of  Cullands,  a  man  before  his  class  and  his 
time,  for  long  the  only  Whig  and  Seceder  laird  in  Peeblesshire, 
and  with  whom  my  father  shared  the  Edinburgh  Review  from 
its  beginning,  — the  two  sisters  who  were,  the  one  to  the  other, 
as  Martha  was  to  Mary,  sat  talking  of  their  household  doings ; 
my  aunt  was  great  upon  some  things  she  could  do ;  my  father 
looked  up  from  his  book,  and  said,  "  There  is  one  thing,  Mrs. 
Aitken,  you  cannot  do :  you  cannot  turn  the  heel  of  a  stock- 
ing ; "  and  he  was  right,  he  had  noticed  her  make  over  this 
"  kittle  "  turn  to  her  mother. 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  171 

mind  was  logical,  as  must  be  that  of  all  minds  who 
seek  and  find  truth,  for  logic  is  nothing  else  than  the 
arithmetic  of  thought ;  having  therefore  thought  it 
out,  he  proceeded  to  put  it  into  formal  expression. 
This  he  did  so  as  never  again  to  undo  it.  His  mind 
seemed  to  want  the  wheels  by  which  this  is  done, 
vestigia  nulla  retrorsum,  and  having  stereotyped  it> 
he  was  never  weary  of  it ;  it  never  lost  its  life  and 
freshness  to  him,  and  he  delivered  it  as  emphatically 
thirty  years  after  it  had  been  cast  as  the  first  hour 
of  its  existence. 

I  have  said  he  was  no  swordsman,  but  he  was  a 
heavy  shot ;  he  fired  off  his  ball,  compact,  weighty, 
the  maximum  of  substance  in  the  minimum  of 
bulk ;  he  put  in  double  charge,  pointed  the  muzzle, 
and  fired,  with  what  force  and  sharpness  we  all  re- 
member. If  it  hit,  good  ;  if  not,  all  he  could  do  was 
to  load  again,  with  the  same  ball,  and  in  the  same 
direction.  You  must  come  to  him  to  be  shot,  at 
least  you  must  stand  still,  for  he  had  a  want  of  mo- 
bility of  mind  in  great  questions.  He  could  not  stalk 
about  the  field  like  a  sharp-shooter ;  his  was  a  great 
sixty-eight  pounder,  and  it  was  not  much  of  a  swivel. 
Thus  it  was  that  he  rather  dropped  into  the  minds  of 
others  his  authoritative  assertions,  and  left  them  to 
breed  conviction.  If  they  gave  them  entrance  and 
cherished  them,  they  would  soon  find  how  full  of 
primary  truth  they  were,  and  how  well  they  would 
serve  them,  as  they  had  served  him.  With  all  this 
heavy  artillery,  somewhat  slow  and  cumbrous,  on 


172  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

great  questions,  he  had  no  want,  when  he  was  speak- 
ing off-hand,  of  quick,  snell  remark,  often  witty  and 
full  of  spirit,  and  often,  too,  unexpected,  like  lightning 
—  flashing,  smiting,  and  gone.  In  Church  Courts 
this  was  very  marked.  On  small  ordinary  matters,  a 
word  from  him  would  settle  a  long  discussion.  He 
would,  after  lively,  easy  talk  with  his  next  neighbor, 
set  him  up  to  make  a  speech,  which  was  conclusive. 
But  on  great  questions  he  must  move  forward  his 
great  gun  with  much  solemnity  and  effort,  partly 
from  his  desire  to  say  as  much  of  the  truth  at  once 
as  he  could,  partly  from  the  natural  concentration 
and  rapidity  of  his  mind  in  action,  as  distinguished 
from  his  slowness  when  incubating,  or  in  the  process 
of  thought,  —  and  partly  from  a  sort  of  self -conscious- 
ness —  I  might  almost  call  it  a  compound  of  pride 
and  nervous  diffidence  —  which  seldom  left  him.  He 
desired  to  say  it  so  that  it  might  never  need  to  be 
said  again  or  otherwise  by  himself,  or  any  one  else. 

This  strong  personality,  along  with  a  prevailing 
love  to  be  alone  and  dwell  with  thoughts  rather  than 
with  thinkers,  pervaded  his  entire  character.  His 
religion  was  deeply  personal,1  not  only  as  affecting 
himself,  but  as  due  to  a  personal  God,  and  presented 
through  the  sacrifice  and  intercession  of  the  God-man  ; 
and  it  was  perhaps  owing  to  his  "  conversation  "  being 
so  habitually  in  heaven  —  his  social  and  affectionate 

1  In  his  own  words,  ' '  A  personal  Deity  is  the  soul  of  Natural 
Religion;  a  personal  Saviour — the  real  living  Christ  —  is  the 
soul  of  Revealed  Religion." 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  173 

desires  filling  themselves  continually  from  "  all  the 
fulness  of  God,"  through  living  faith  and  love  —  that 
he  the  less  felt  the  need  of  giving  and  receiving 
human  affection.  I  never  knew  any  man  who  lived 
more  truly  under  the  power,  and  sometimes  under 
the  shadow,  of  the  world  to  come.  This  world  had 
to  him  little  reality,  except  as  leading  to  the  next ; 
little  interest,  except  as  the  time  of  probation  and 
sentence.  A  child  brought  to  him  to  be  baptized  was 
in  his  mind,  and  in  his  words,  "  a  young  immortal  to 
be  educated  for  eternity ;  "  a  birth  was  the  beginning 
of  what  was  never  to  end  ;  sin  —  his  own  and  that  of 
the  race  —  was  to  him,  as  it  must  be  to  all  men  who 
can  think,  the  great  mystery,  as  it  is  the  main  curse 
of  time.  The  idea  of  it  —  of  its  exceeding  sinf  ulness 
—  haunted  and  oppressed  him.  He  used  to  say  of 
John  Foster,  that  this  deep  and  intense,  but  some- 
times narrow  and  grim  thinker,  had,  in  his  study  of 
the  disease  of  the  race,  been,  as  it  were,  fascinated  by 
its  awful  spell,  so  as  almost  to  forget  the  remedy. 
This  was  not  the  case  with  himself.  As  you  know, 
no  man  held  more  firmly  to  the  objective  reality  of 
his  religion,  that  it  was  founded  upon  fact.  It  was 
not  the  pole-star  he  lost  sight  of,  or  the  compass  he 
mistrusted ;  it  was  the  sea-worthiness  of  the  vessel. 
His  constitutional  deficiency  of  hope,  his  sensibility 
to  sin,  made  him  not  unfrequently  stand  in  doubt  of 
himself,  of  his  sincerity  and  safety  before  God,  and 
sometimes  made  existence  —  the  being  obliged  to  con- 
tinue to  be  —  a  doubtful  privilege. 


174  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

When  oppressed  with  this  feeling,  —  "  the  burden 
and  the  mystery  of  all  this  unintelligible  world,"  the 
hurry  of  mankind  out  of  this  brief  world  into  the 
unchangeable  and  endless  next,  —  I  have  heard  him, 
with  deep  feeling,  repeat  Andrew  *Marvell's  strong 
lines :  — 

' '  But  at  my  back  I  always  hear 

Time's  winged  chariots  hurrying  near ; 

And  yonder  all  before  me  lie 

Deserts  of  vast  eternity." 

His  living  so  much  on  books,  and  his  strong  personal 
attachment  to  men,  as  distinct  from  his  adhesion  to 
their  principles  and  views,  made  him,  as  it  were,  live 
and  commune  with  the  dead ;  made  him  intimate, 
not  merely  with  their  thoughts,  and  the  public  events 
of  their  lives,  but  with  themselves,  —  Augustine,  Mil- 
ton, Luther,  Melancthon,  George  Herbert,  Baxter, 
Howe,  Owen,  Leighton,  Barrow,  Bunyan,  Philip  and 
Matthew  Henry,  Doddridge,  Defoe,  Marvell,  Locke, 
Berkeley,  Halliburton,  Cowper,  Gray,  Johnson,  Gib- 
bon, and  David  Hume,1  Jortin,  Boston,  Bengel,  Ne- 
ander,  etc.,  not  to  speak  of  the  apostles,  and  above 
all,  his  chief  friend  the  author  of  the  Epistle  to  the 
Romans,  whom  he  looked  on  as  the  greatest  of  men, 
—  with  all  these  he  had  personal  relations  as  men,  he 

1  David  Hume's  Treatise  on  Human  Nature  he  knew 
thoroughly,  and  read  it  carefully  during  his  last  illness.  He 
used  to  say  it  not  only  was  a  miracle  of  intellectual  and  literary 
power  for  a  man  of  twenty-eight,  but  contained  the  essence  of 
all  that  was  best  on  the  philosophy  of  mind  :  "  It's  all  there, 
if  you  will  think  it  out." 


MY   FATHER'S   MEMOIR.  175 

cordialized  with  them.  He  had  thought  much  more 
about  them,  would  have  had  more  to  say  to  them 
had  they  met,  than  about  or  to  any  but  a  very  few 
living  men.1  He  delighted  to  possess  books  which 
any  of  them  might  have  held  in  their  hands,  on  which 
they  had  written  their  names.  He  had  a  number  of 
these,  some  very  curious  ;  among  others,  that  wild 

1  This  tendency  was  curiously  seen  in  his  love  of  portraits, 
especially  of  men  whose  works  he  had  and  liked.  He  often 
put  portraits  into  his  books,  and  he  seemed  to  enjoy  this  way 
of  realizing1  their  authors ;  and  in  exhibitions  of  pictures  he 
was  more  taken  up  with  what  is  usually  and  justly  the  most 
tiresome  departments,  the  portraits,  than  with  all  else.  He 
was  not  learned  in  engravings,  and  made  no  attempt  at  col- 
lecting them,  so  that  the  following-  list  of  portraits  in  his 
rooms  shows  his  liking  for  the  men  much  more  than  for  the 
art  which  delineated  them.  Of  course  they  by  no  means 
include  all  his  friends,  ancient  and  modern,  but  they  all  were 
his  friends :  — 

Robert  Hall  —  Dr.  Carey  —  Melancthon  —  Calvin  —  Pollok 

—  Erasmus  (very  like    "Uncle   Ebenezer")  —  John  Knox  — 
Dr.  Waugh  —  John  Milton  (three,  all  framed)  —  Dr.  Dick  — 
Dr.  Hall  —  Luther  (two)  — Dr.  Heugh  — Dr.  Mitchell  — Dr. 
Balmer  —  Dr.   Henderson  —  Dr.  Wardlaw  —  Shakespeare  (a 
small  oil  painting  which  he  had  since  ever  I  remember)  — 
Dugald    Stewart  —  Dr.    Innes  —  Dr.    Smith,    Biggar  —  the 
two  Erskines  and  Mr.  Fisher  —  Dr.  John  Taylor  of  Toronto  — 
Dr.   Chalmers  —  Mr.  William  Ellis  —  Rev.  James  Elles  —  J. 
B.  Patterson  —  Vinet  —  Archibald  M'Lean  —  Dr.  John  Erskine 

—  Tholuck  —  John  Pym  —  Gesenius  —  Professor  Finlayson  — 
Richard  Baxter  —  Dr.  Lawson  —  Dr.  Peddle  (two,  and  a  copy 
of  Joseph's  noble  bust)  ;  and  they  were  thus  all  about  him 
for  no  other  reason  than  that  he  liked  to  look  at  and  think  of 
them  through  their  countenances. 


176  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

soldier,  man  of  fashion  and  wit  among  the  reformers, 
Ulric  von  Hiitten's  autograph  on  Erasmus'  beautiful 
folio  Greek  Testament,  and  John  Howe's  (spelt  How) 
on  the  first  edition  of  Milton's  Speech  on  Unlicensed 
Printing.*  He  began  collecting  books  when  he  was 

1  In  a  copy  of  Baxter's  Life  and  Times,  which  he  picked  up 
at  Maurice  Ogle's  shop  in  Glasgow,  which  had  belonged  to 
Anna,  Countess  of  Argyll,  besides  her  autograph,  there  is  a 
most  affecting  and  interesting  note  in  that  venerable  lady's 
handwriting.  It  occurs  on  the  page  where  Baxter  brings  a 
charge  of  want  of  veracity  against  her  eldest  and  name-daugh- 
ter who  was  perverted  to  Popery.  They  are  in  a  hand  tremu- 
lous with  age  and  feeling :  "I  can  say  w*  truth  I  neuer  in 
all  my  lyff  did  hear  hir  ly,  and  what  she  said,  if  it  was  not 
trew,  it  was  by  others  sugested  to  hir,  as  y'  she  wold  embak 
on  Wedensday.  She  belived  she  wold,  hot  thy  took  hir, 
alles !  from  me  who  never  did  sie  her  mor.  The  minester  of 
Cuper,  Mr.  John  Magill,  did  sie  hir  at  Paris  in  the  convent. 
Said  she  was  a  knowing  and  vertuous  person,  and  hed  retined 
the  living  principels  of  our  relidgon,  which  made  him  say  it 
was  good  to  grund  young  persons  weel  in  ther  relidgion,  as  she 
was  one  it  appired  weel  grunded." 

The  following  is  Lord  Lindsay's  letter,  on  seeing  this  re- 
markable marginal  note  :  — 

EDINBURGH,  DOUGLAS'  HOTEL, 
26th  December,  1856. 

Mv  DEAR  SIR,  —  I  owe  you  my  sincerest  thanks  for  your 
kindness  in  favoring  me  with  a  sight  of  the  volume  of  Baxter's 
Life,  which  formerly  belonged  to  my  ancestrix,  Anna,  Countess 
of  Argyll.  The  MS.  note  inserted  by  her  in  it  respecting  her 
daughter  is  extremely  interesting.  I  had  always  been  under 
(lie  impression  that  the  daughter  had  died  very  shortly  after 
her  removal  to  France,  but  the  contrary  appears  from  Lady 
Argyll's  memorandum.  That  memorandum  throws  also  a 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  177 

twelve,  and  he  was  collecting  up  to  his  last  hours. 
He  cared  least  for  merely  fine  books,  though  he  en- 
joyed, no  one  more  so,  fine  type,  good  binding,  and 
all  the  niceties  of  the  book-fancier.  What  lie  liked 
were  such  books  as  were  directly  useful  in  his  work, 
and  such  as  he  liked  to  live  in  the  midst  of;  such, 
also,  as  illustrated  any  great  philosophical,  historical, 
or  ecclesiastical  epoch.  His  collection  of  Greek  Tes- 
taments was,  considering  his  means,  of  great  extent 
and  value,  and  he  had  a  quite  singular  series  of  books, 
pamphlets,  and  documents,  referring  not  merely  to 
his  own  body  —  the  Secession,  with  all  its  subdivisions 
and  reunions  —  but  to  Nonconformity  and  Dissent 
everywhere,  and,  indeed,  to  human  liberty,  civil  and 
religious,  in  every  form,  —  for  this,  after  the  great 
truths,  duties,  and  expectations  of  his  faith,  was  the 
one  master-passion  of  his  life  —  liberty  in  its  greatest 
sense,  the  largest  extent  of  individual  and  public 
spontaneity  consistent  with  virtue  and  safety.  He 
was  in  this  as  intense,  persistent  in  his  devotion,  as 
Sydney,  Locke,  or  old  Hollis.  For  instance,  his  ad- 
miration of  Lord  Macaulay  as  a  writer  and  a  man  of 

pleasing1  light  on  the  later  life  of  Lady  Anna,  and  forcibly 
illustrates  the  undying  love  and  tenderness  of  the  aged  mother, 
who  must  have  been  very  old  when  she  penned  it,  the  book 
having  been  printed  as  late  as  1696. 

I  am  extremely  obliged  to  you  for  communicating  to  me 
this  new  and  very  interesting  information.  Believe  me,  my 
dear  Sir,  your  much  obliged  and  faithful  servant, 

LINDSAY. 

JOHN  BROWN,  Esq.,  M.  D. 


178  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

letters,  an  orator  and  a  statesman,  great  as  it  was, 
was  as  nothing  to  his  gratitude  to  him  for  having 
placed  permanently  on  record,  beyond  all  risk  of  ob- 
scuration or  doubt,  the  doctrine  of  1688, — the  right 
and  power  of  the  English  people  to  be  their  own  law- 
givers, and  to  appoint  their  own  magistrates,  of  whom 
the  sovereign  is  the  chief. 

His  conviction  of  the  sole  right  of  God  to  be  Lord 
of  the  conscience,  and  his  sense  of  his  own  absolute 
religious  independence  of  every  one  but  his  Maker, 
were  the  two  elements  in  building  up  his  beliefs  on  all 
Church  matters ;  they  were  twin  beliefs.  Hence  the 
simplicity  and  thoroughness  of  his  principles.  Sitting 
in  the  centre,  he  commanded  the  circumference.  But 
I  am  straying  out  of  my  parish  into  yours.  I  only 
add  to  what  you  have  said,  that  the  longer  he  lived, 
the  more  did  he  insist  upon  it  being  not  less  true  and 
not  less  important,  that  the  Church  must  not  inter- 
meddle with  the  State,  than  that  the  State  must  not 
intermeddle  with  the  Church.  He  used  to  say,  "  Go 
down  into  the  world,  with  all  its  complications  and 
confusions,  with  this  double-edged  weapon,  and  you 
can  cut  all  the  composite  knots  of  Church  and  State." 
The  element  of  God  and  of  eternity  predominates  in 
the  religious  more  than  in  the  civil  affairs  of  men, 
and  thus  far  transcends  them ;  but  the  principle  of 
mutual  independence  is  equally  applicable  to  each. 
All  that  statesmen,  as  suchr  have  to  do  with  religion, 
is  to  be  themselves  under  its  power ;  all  that  Chris- 
tians, as  such,  have  to  do  with  the  State,  is  to  be  good 
citizens. 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  179 

The  fourth  epoch  of  his  personal  life  I  would  date 
from  his  second  marriage.  As  I  said  before,  no  man 
was  ever  happier  in  his  wives.  They  had  much  alike 
in  nature,  —  only  one  could  see  the  divine  wisdom  of 
his  first  wife  being  his  first,  and  his  second  his  second  ; 
each  did  best  in  her  own  place  and  time.  His  mar- 
riage with  Miss  Crum  was  a  source  of  great  happiness 
and  good  not  only  to  himself,  but  to  us  his  first  chil- 
dren. She  had  been  intimately  known  to  us  for  many 
years,  and  was  endeared  to  us  long  before  we  saw  her, 
by  her  having  been,  as  a  child  and  girl,  a  great  favor- 
ite of  our  own  mother.  The  families  of  my  grand- 
father Nimmo,  and  of  the  Crums,  Ewings,  and 
Maclaes,  were  very  intimate.  I  have  heard  my  fa- 
ther tell,  that  being  out  at  Thornliebank  with  my 
mother,  he  asked  her  to  take  a  walk  with  him  to  the 
Rouken,  a  romantic  waterfall  and  glen  up  the  burn. 
My  mother  thought  they  might  take  "Miss  Margaret" 
with  them,  and  so  save  appearances,  and  with  Miss 
Crum,  then  a  child  of  ten,  holding  my  father's  hand, 
away  the  three  went ! 

So  you  may  see  that  no  one  could  be  nearer  to  be- 
ing our  mother  ;  and  she  was  curiously  ingenious,  and 
completely  successful  in  gaining  our  affection  and 
regard.  I  have,  as  a  boy,  a  peculiarly  pleasant  re- 
membrance of  her,  having  been  at  Thornliebank 
when  about  fourteen,  and  getting  that  impression  of 
her  gentle,  kind,  wise,  calm,  and  happy  nature,  —  her 
entire  lovableness,  —  which  it  was  our  privilege  to  see 
ministering  so  much  to  my  father's  comfort.  That 


180  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

fortnight  in  1824  or  1825  is  still  to  me  like  the  mem- 
ory of  some  happy  dream  :  the  old  library,  the  big 
chair  in  which  I  huddled  myself  up  for  hours  with  the 
new  Arabian  Nights,  and  all  the  old-fashioned  and 
unforgotten  books  I  found  there,  the  ample  old  gar- 
den, the  wonders  of  machinery  and  skill  going  on  in 
"  the  works,"  the  large  water-wheel  going  its  stately 
rounds  in  the  midst  of  its  own  darkness,  the  petrifac- 
tions I  excavated  in  the  bed  of  the  burn,  ammonites, 
etc.,  and  brought  home  to  my  museum  (!) ;  the  hospi- 
table lady  of  the  house,  my  hereditary  friend,  dig- 
nified, anxious,  and  kind ;  and  above  all,  her  only 
daughter  who  made  me  a  sort  of  pet,  and  was  always 
contriving  some  unexpected  pleasure,  —  all  this  feels 
to  me  even  now  like  something  out  of  a  book. 

My  father's  union  with  Miss  Crum  was  not  only  one 
of  the  best  blessings  of  his  life,  —  it  made  him  more 
of  a  blessing  to  others  than  it  is  likely  he  would  other- 
wise have  been.  By  her  cheerful,  gracious  ways,  her 
love  for  society  as  distinguished  from  company,  her 
gift  of  making  every  one  happy  and  at  ease  when 
with  her,  and  her  tender  compassion  for  all  suffering, 
she  in  a  measure  won  my  father  from  himself  and  his 
books,  to  his  own  great  good,  and  to  the  delight  and 
benefit  of  us  all.  It  was  like  sunshine  and  a  glad 
sound  in  the  house.  She  succeeded  in  what  is  called 
"  drawing  out "  the  inveterate  solitary.  Moreover, 
she  encouraged  and  enabled  him  to  give  up  a  moiety 
of  his  ministerial  labors,  and  thus  to  devote  himself  to 
the  great  work  of  his  later  years,  the  preparing  for 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  181 

and  giving  to  the  press  the  results  of  his  life's  study 
of  God's  Word.  We  owe  entirely  to  her  that  im- 
mense armamentarium  libertatis,  the  third  edition  of 
his  treatise  on  Civil  Obedience. 

One  other  source  of  great  happiness  to  my  father 
by  this  marriage  was  the  intercourse  he  had  with  the 
family  at  Thornliebank,  deepened  and  endeared  as 
this  was  by  her  unexpected  and  irreparable  loss. 
But  on  this  I  must  not  enlarge,  nor  on  that  death  it- 
self, the  last  thing  in  the  world  he  ever  feared,  — 
leaving  him  once  more,  after  a  brief  happiness,  and 
when  he  had  still  more  reason  to  hope  that  he  would 
have  "grown  old  with  her,  leaning  on  her  faithful 
bosom."  The  urn  was  again  empty  —  and  the  only 
word  was  vale  !  he  was  once  more  viduus,  bereft. 

"  God  gives  us  love  ;  something  to  love 
He  lends  us  ;  but,  when  love  is  grown 

To  ripeness,  that  on  which  it  throve 
Falls  off,  and  love  is  left  alone. 

This  is  the  curse  of  time." 

But  Still  — 

"  'Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost, 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all." 

It  was  no  easy  matter  to  get  him  from  home  and 
away  from  his  books.  But  once  off,  he  always  en- 
joyed himself,  —  especially  in  his  visits  to  Thornlie- 
bank, Busby,  Crofthead,  Biggar,  and  Melrose.  He 
was  very  fond  of  preaching  on  these  occasions,  and 
his  services  were  always  peculiarly  impressive.  He 
spoke  more  slowly  and  with  less  vehemence  than  in 


182  MY  FATHER'S  MKMOIR. 

his  own  pulpit,  and,  as  I  often  told  him,  with  all  the 
more  effect.  When  driving  about  Biggar,  or  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Langrig,  he  was  full  of  the  past, 
showing  how  keenly,  with  all  his  outward  reserve,  he 
had  observed  and  felt.  He  had  a  quite  peculiar  in- 
terest in  his  three  flocks,  keeping  his  eye  on  all  their 
members,  through  long  years  of  absence. 

His  love  for  his  people  and  for  his  "  body ''  was  a 
special  love ;  and  his  knowledge  of  the  Secession, 
through  all  its  many  divisions  and  unions,  —  his 
knowledge,  not  only  of  its  public  history,  with  its 
immense  controversial  and  occasional  literature,  but 
of  the  lives  and  peculiarities  of  its  ministers,  —  was 
of  the  most  minute  and  curious  kind.  He  loved  all 
mankind,  and  specially  such  as  were  of  "  the  house- 
hold of  faith ;  "  and  he  longed  for  the  time  when,  as 
there  was  one  Shepherd,  there  would  be  but  one 
sheepfold  ;  but  he  gloried  in  being  not  only  a  Se- 
ceder,  but  Burgher ;  and  he  often  said  that,  take 
them  all  in  all,  he  knew  no  body  of  professing  Chris- 
tians in  any  country  or  in  any  time,  worthier  of  all 
honor  than  that  which  was  founded  by  the  Four 
Brethren,  not  only  as  God-fearing,  God-serving  men, 
but  as  members  of  civil  society ;  men  who  on  every 
occasion  were  found  on  the  side  of  liberty  and  order, 
truth  and  justice.  He  used  to  say  he  believed  there 
was  hardly  a  Tory  in  the  Synod,  and  that  no  one 
but  He  whose  service  is  perfect  freedom  knew  the 
public  good  done,  and  the  public  evil  averted,  by  the 
lives  and  the  principles,  and  when  need  was,  by  the 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  183 

votes  of  such  men,  all  of  whom  were  in  the  working- 
classes,  or  in  the  lower  half  of  the  middle.  The 
great  Whig  leaders  knew  this,  and  could  always  de- 
pend on  the  Seceders. 

There  is  no  worthy  portrait  of  my  father  in  his 
prime.  I  believe  no  man  was  ever  more  victimized 
in  the  way  of  being  asked  to  "  sit ; "  indeed,  it  was 
probably  from  so  many  of  them  being  of  this  kind, 
that  the  opportunity  of  securing  a  really  good  one 
was  lost.  The  best  —  the  one  portrait  of  his  habit- 
ual expression  —  is  Mr.  Harvey's,  done  for  Mr. 
Crum  of  Busby  :  it  was  taken  when  he  was  failing, 
but  it  is  an  excellent  likeness  as  well  as  a  noble  pic- 
ture ;  such  a  picture  as  one  would  buy  without  know- 
ing anything  of  the  subject.  So  true  it  is,  that  imagi- 
native painters,  men  gifted  and  accustomed  to  render 
their  own  ideal  conceptions  in  form  and  color,  grasp 
and  impress  on  their  canvas  the  features  of  real  men 
more  to  the  quick,  more  faithfully  as  to  the  central 
qualities  of  the  man,  than  professed  portrait  painters. 

Steell's  bust  is  beautiful,  but  it  is  wanting  in  ex- 
pression. Slater's,  though  rude,  is  better.  Angus 
Fletcher's  has  much  of  his  air,  but  is  too  much  like  a 
Grecian  god.  There  is  a  miniature  by  Mrs.  Robert- 
son, of  London,  belonging  to  my  sister,  Mrs.  Young, 
which  I  always  liked,  though  more  like  a  gay,  bril- 
liant French  Abbe",  than  the  Seceder  minister  of 
Rose  Street,  as  he  then  was.  It  gives,  however, 
more  of  his  exquisite  brightness  and  spirit,  the  dan- 
cing light  in  his  dark  eyes,  and  his  smile,  when 


184  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

pleased  and  desiring  to  please,  than  any  other.  I 
have  a  drawing  by  Mr.  Harvey,  done  from  my 
father  for  his  picture  of  the  Minister's  Visit,  which 
I  value  very  much,  as  giving  the  force  and  depth, 
the  momentum,  so  to  speak,  of  his  serious  look.  He 
is  sitting  in  a  cottar's  house,  reading  the  Bible  to  an 
old  bedridden  woman,  the  farm  servants  gathered 
round  to  get  his  word. 

Mungo  Burton  painted  a  good  portrait  which  my 
brother  William  has  ;  from  his  being  drawn  in  a 
black  neckcloth,  and  standing,  he  looks,  as  he  some- 
times did,  more  like  a  member  of  Pai'liament  than  a 
clergyman.  The  print  from  this  is  good  and  very 
scarce.  Of  photographs,  I  like  D.  O.  Hill's  best,  in 
which  he  is  represented  as  shaking  hands  with  the 
(invisible)  Free  Church  —  it  is  full  of  his  earnest, 
cordial  power  ;  that  by  Tunny,  from  which  the  beau- 
tiful engraving  by  Lumb  Stocks  in  the  Memoir  was 
taken,  is  very  like  what  he  was  about  a  year  and  a 
half  before  his  death.  All  the  other  portraits,  as  far 
as  I  can  remember,  are  worthless  and  worse,  missing 
entirely  the  true  expression.  He  was  very  difficult 
to  take,  partly  because  he  was  so  full  of  what  may 
be  called  spiritual  beauty,  evanescent,  ever  changing, 
and  requiring  the  highest  kind  of  genius  to  fix  it ; 
and  partly  from  his  own  fault,  for  he  thought  it  was 
necessary  to  be  lively,  or  rather  to  try  to  be  so  to  his 
volunteering  artist,  and  the  consequence  was,  his  giv- 
ing them,  as  his  habitual  expression,  one  which  was 
rare,  and  in  this  particular  case  more  made  than 
born. 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  185 

The  time  when  I  would  have  liked  his  look  to  have 
been  perpetuated  was  that  of  all  others  the  least 
likely,  or  indeed  possible;  —  it  was  when,  after  ad- 
ministering the  Sacrament  to  his  people,  and  having 
solemnized  every  one,  and  been  himself  profoundly 
moved  by  that  Divine,  everlasting  memorial,  he  left 
the  elder's  seat  and  returned  to  the  pulpit,  and  after 
giving  out  the  psalm,  sat  down  wearied  and  satisfied, 
filled  with  devout  gratitude  to  his  Master,  — his  face 
pale,  and  his  dark  eyes  looking  out  upon  us  all,  his 
whole  countenance  radiant  and  subdued.  Any  like- 
ness of  him  in  this  state,  more  like  that  of  the  proto- 
martyr,  when  his  face  was  as  that  of  an  angel,  than 
anything  I  ever  beheld,  would  have  made  one  feel 
what  it  is  so  impossible  otherwise  to  convey.  —  the 
mingled  sweetness,  dignity,  and  beauty  of  his  face. 
When  it  was  winter,  and  the  church  darkening,  and 
the  lights  at  the  pulpit  were  lighted  so  as  to  fall  upon 
his  face  and  throw  the  rest  of  the  vast  assemblage 
into  deeper  shadow,  the  effect  of  his  countenance  was 
something  never  to  forget. 

He  was  more  a  man  of  power  than  of  genius  in  the 
ordinary  sense.  His  imagination  was  not  a  primary 
power  ;  it  was  not  originative,  though  in  a  quite  un- 
common degree  receptive,  having  the  capacity  of 
realizing  the  imaginations  of  others,  and  through 
them  bodying  forth  the  unseen.  When  exalted  and 
urged  by  the  understanding,  and  heated  by  the  affec- 
tions, it  burst  out  with  great  force,  but  always  as  ser- 
vant, not  master.  But  if  he  had  no  one  faculty  that 


186  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

might  be,  to  use  the  loose  words  of  common  speech, 
original,  he  was  so  as  a  whole,  —  such  a  man  as 
stood  alone.  No  one  ever  mistook  his  look,  or  would 
had  they  been  blind,  have  mistaken  his  voice  or  words 
for  those  of  any  one  else  or  any  one  else's  for  his. 

His  mental  characteristics,  if  I  may  venture  on 
such  ground,  were  clearness  and  vigor,  intensity, 
fervor,1  concentration,  penetration,  and  perseverance, 
—  more  of  depth  than  width.2  The  moral  conditions 

1  This  earnestness  of  nature  pervaded  all  his  exercises.     A 
man  of  great  capacity  and  culture,  with  a  head  like  Benjamin 
Franklin's,  an  avowed  unbeliever  in  Christianity,  came  every 
Sunday  afternoon,  for  many  years,  to  hear  him.     I  remember 
his  look  well,   as  if  interested,  but  not  impressed.     He  was 
often  asked  by  his  friends  why  he  went  when  he  did  n't  be- 
lieve one  word  of  what  he  heard.     "  Neither  I  do,  but  I  like 
to  hear  and  to  see  a  man  earnest  once  a  week,  about  any- 
thing."    It  is  related  of  David  Hume,  that  having  heard  my 
great-grandfather  preach,  he  said,  "That's  the  man  for  me, 
he  means  what  he  says,  he  speaks  as  if  Jesus  Christ  was  at  his 
elbow." 

2  The  following  note  from  the  pen  to  which  we  owe    St. 
Paul's  Thorn  in  the  Flesh  is  admirable,  both  for  its  reference 
to  my  father,  and  its  own  beauty  and  truth  :  — 

"  One  instance  of  his  imperfect  discernment  of  associations 
of  thought  that  were  not  of  a  purely  logical  character  was 
afforded,  we  used  to  think,  by  the  decided  and  almost  con- 
temptuous manner  in  which  he  always  rejected  the  theory  of 
what  is  called  the  double  interpretation  of  prophecy.  This,  of 
course,  is  not  the  place  to  discuss  whether  he  was  absolutely 
right  or  wrong  in  his  opinion.  The  subject,  however,  is  one 
of  somewhat  curious  interest,  and  it  has  also  a  strictly  literary 
as  well  as  a  theological  aspect,  and  what  we  have  to  say  about 
it  shall  relate  exclusively  to  the  former.  When  Dr.  Brown 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  187 

under  which  he  lived  were  the  love,  the  pursuit,  and 
the  practice  of  truth  in  everything ;  strength  and 

then  said,  as  he  was  accustomed  in  his  strong  way  to  do,  that 
'  if  prophecy  was  capable  of  two  senses,  it  wa3  impossible  it 
could  have  any  sense  at  all,'  it  is  plain,  we  think,  that  he  for- 
got the  specific  character  of  prophetic  literature,  viz.,  its  be- 
ing in  the  highest  degree  poetic.  Now  every  one  knows  that 
poetry  of  a  very  elevated  cast  almost  invariably  possesses 
great  breadth,  variety,  we  may  say  multiplicity,  of  meaning. 
Its  very  excellence  consists  in  its  being  capable  of  two,  three, 
or  many  meanings  and  applications.  Take,  for  example,  these 
familiar  lines  in  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream :  — 
'  Ah  me  !  for  aught  that  ever  I  could  read, 

Could  ever  hear  by  tale  or  history, 

The  course  of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth : 

But  either  it  was  different  in  blood, 

Or  else  misgraffed  in  respect  of  years, 

Or  else  it  stood  upon  the  choice  of  friends  ; 

Or  if  there  were  a  sympathy  in  choice, 

War,  death,  or  sickness  did  lay  siege  to  it, 

Making  it  momentary  as  a  sound, 

Swift  as  a  shadow,  short  as  any  dream, 

Brief  as  the  lightning  in  the  collied  night, 

That  in  a  spleen  unfolds  both  heaven  and  earth, 

And  ere  a  niau  hath  power  to  say  "  Behold  !  " 

The  jaws  of  darkness  do  devour  it  up  ; 

So  quick  bright  things  come  to  confusion.' 

We  remember  once  quoting  these  lines  to  a  lady,  and  being 
rather  taken  aback  by  her  remark,  '  They  are  very  beautiful, 
but  I  don't  think  they  are  true.'  We  really  had  forgot  for 
the  moment  the  straightforward,  matter-of-fact  sense  of  which 
they  are  capable,  and  were  not  adverting  to  the  possibility  of 
their  being  understood  to  mean  that  —  nothing  but  love-crosses 
are  going,  and  that  no  tolerable  amount  of  comfort  or  happi- 
ness is  to  be  found  in  the  life  matrimonial,  or  in  any  of  the 
approaches  towards  it.  Every  intelligent  student  of  Shake- 
speare's, however,  will  at  once  feel  that  the  poet's  miiid  speed- 


188  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

depth,  rather  than  external  warmth  of  affection ; 
fidelity  to  principles  and  to  friends.  He  used  often 
to  speak  of  the  moral  obligation  laid  upon  every  man 
to  think  truly,  as  well  as  to  speak  and  act  truly,  and 
said  that  much  intellectual  demoralization  and  ruin 
resulted  from  neglecting  this.  He  was  absolutely 
tolerant  of  all  difference  of  opinion,  so  that  it  was 
sincere ;  and  this  was  all  the  more  remarkable  from 
his  being  the  opposite  of  an  indifferentist,  being  very 
strong  in  his  own  convictions,  holding  them  keenly, 
even  passionately,  while,  from  the  structure  of  his 
mind,  he  was  somehow  deficient  in  comprehending, 
much  less  of  sympathizing,  with  the  opinions  of  men 
who  greatly  differed  from  him.  This  made  his  hom- 
age to  entire  freedom  of  thought  all  the  more  gen- 
uine and  rare.  In  the  region  of  theological  thought 
he  was  scientific,  systematic,  and  authoritative,  rather 

ily  passes  away  from  the  idea  with  which  he  starts,  and 
becomes  merged  in  a  far  wider  theme,  viz.,  in  the  disenchant- 
ment to  which  all  lofty  imaginations  are  liable,  the  disappoint- 
ment to  which  all  extravagant  earthly  hopes  and  wishes  are 
doomed.  This,  in  fact,  is  distinctly  expressed  in  the  last  line, 
and  in  this  sense  alone  can  the  words  be  regarded  as  at  all 
touching  or  impressive.  Sudden  expansions  and  transitions  of 
thought,  then,  are  nothing  more  than  what  is  common  to  all 
poetry  ;  and  when  we  find  the  Hebrew  bards,  in  their  prophetic 
songs,  mingling  in  the  closest  conjunction  the  anticipations  of 
the  glories  of  Solomon's  reign,  or  the  happy  prospects  of  a  re- 
turn from  Babylon,  with  the  higher  glory  and  happiness  of 
Messiah's  advent,  such  transitions  of  thought  are  in  perfect 
accordance  with  the  ordinary  laws  of  poetry,  and  ought  not  to 
perplex  even  the  most  unimaginative  student  of  the  Bible." 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  189 

than  philosophical  and  speculative.  He  held  so 
strongly  that  the  Christian  religion  was  mainly  a  re- 
ligion of  facts,  that  he  perhaps  allowed  too  little  to 
its  also  being  a  philosophy  that  was  ready  to  meet, 
out  of  its  own  essence  and  its  ever  unfolding  powers, 
any  new  form  of  unbelief,  disbelief,  or  misbelief,  and 
must  front  itself  to  them  as  they  moved  up. 

With  devotional  feeling  —  with  everything  that 
showed  reverence  and  godly  fear  -j-  he  cordialized 
wherever  and  in  whomsoever  it  was  found,  —  Pagan 
or  Christian,  Romanist  or  Protestant,  bond  or  free  ; 
and  while  he  disliked,  and  had  indeed  a  positive  an- 
tipathy to  intellectual  mysticism,  he  had  a  great 
knowledge  of  and  relish  for  such  writers  as  Dr. 
Henry  More,  Culverwel,  Scougall,  Madame  Guyon, 
whom  (besides  their  other  qualities)  I  may  perhaps 
be  allowed  to  call  affectionate  mystics,  and  for  such 
poets  as  Herbert  and  Vaughan,  whose  poetry  was 
pious,  and  their  piety  poetic.  As  I  have  said,  he 
was  perhaps  too  impatient  of  all  obscure  thinking, 
from  not  considering  that  on  certain  subjects,  neces- 
sarily in  their  substance,  and  on  the  skirts  of  all  sub- 
jects, obscurity  and  vagueness,  difficulty  and  uncer- 
tainty, are  inherent,  and  must  therefore  appear  in 
their  treatment.  Men  who  rejoiced  in  making  clear 
things  obscure,  and  plain  things  the  reverse,  he  could 
not  abide,  and  spoke  with  some  contempt  of  those 
who  were  original  merely  from  their  standing  on  their 
heads,  and  tall  from  walking  upon  stilts.  As  you 
have  truly  said,  his  character  mellowed  and  toned 


190  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

down  in  his  later  years,  without  in  any  way  losing 
its  own  individuality,  and  its  clear,  vigorous,  unflinch- 
ing perception  of  and  addiction  to  principles. 

His  affectionate  ways  with  the  students  were  often 
very  curious  :  he  contrived  to  get  at  their  hearts,  and 
find  out  all  their  family  and  local  specialities,  in  a 
sort  of  short-hand  way,  and  he  never  forgot  them 
in  after  life  ;  and  watching  him  with  them  at  tea, 
speaking  his  miad  freely  and  often  jocularly  upon  all 
sorts  of  subjects,  one  got  a  glimpse  of  that  union  of 
opposites  which  made  him  so  much  what  he  was  — 
he  gave  out  far  more  liberally  to  them  the  riches  of 
his  learning  and  the  deep  thoughts  of  his  heart,  than 
he  ever  did  among  his  full-grown  brethren.  It  was 
like  the  flush  of  an  Arctic  summer,  blossoming  all 
over,  out  of  and  into  the  stillness,  the  loneliness,  and 
the  chill  rigor  of  winter.  Though  authoritative  in  his 
class  without  any  effort,  he  was  indulgent  to  every- 
thing but  conceit,  slovenliness  of  mind  and  body, 
irreverence,  and  above  all  handling  the  Word  of  God 
deceitfully.  On  one  occasion  a  student  having  de- 
livered in  the  Hall  a  discourse  tinged  with  Arminian- 
ism,  he  said,  "  That  may  be  the  gospel  according  to 
Dr.  Macknight,  or  the  gospel  according  to  Dr.  Tay- 
lor, of  Norwich,  but  it  is  not  the  gospel  according  to 
the  Apostle  Paul ;  and  if  I  thought  the  sentiments 
expressed  were  his  own,  if  I  had  not  thought  he  has 
taken  his  thoughts  from  commentators  without  care- 
fully considering  them,  I  would  think  it  my  duty  to 
him  and  to  the  church  to  make  him  no  longer  a  stu- 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  191 

dent  of  divinity  here."  He  was  often  unconsciously 
severe,  from  his  saying  exactly  what  he  felt.  On  a 
student's  ending  his  discourse,  his  only  criticism  wasr 
"  The  strongest  characteristic  of  this  discourse  is 
weakness,"  and  feeling  that  this  was  really  all  he  had 
to  say,  he  ended.  A  young  gentleman  on  very  good 
terms  with  himself  stood  up  to  pray  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  and  among  other  things  he  put  up  a 
petition  that  he  might  "  be  delivered  from  the  fear 
of  man,  which  bringeth  a  snare  ;  "  my  father's  only 
remark  was  that  there  was  part  of  his  prayer  which 
seemed  to  be  granted  before  it  was  asked.  But  he 
always  was  unwilling  to  criticise  prayer,  feeling  it  to 
be  too  sacred,  and,  as  it  were,  beyond  his  province,  ex- 
cept to  deliver  the  true  principles  of  all  prayer,  which 
he  used  to  say  were  admirably  given  in  the  Shorter 
Catechism:  "Prayer  is  an  offering  up  of  the  desires 
of  the  heart  to  God,  for  things  agreeable  to  his  will, 
in  the  name  of  Christ ;  with  confession  of  our  sins, 
and  thankful  acknowledgment  of  his  mercies." 

For  the  "  heroic  "  old  man  of  Haddington  my  fa- 
ther had  a  peculiar  reverence,  as  indeed  we  all  have, 
—  as  well  we  may.  He  was  our  king,  the  founder 
of  our  dynasty  ;  we  dated  from  him,  and  he  was 
"  hedged "  accordingly  by  a  certain  sacredness  or 
"  divinity."  I  well  remember  with  what  surprise  and 
pride  I  found  myself  asked  by  a  blacksmith's  wife  in 
a  remote  hamlet  among  the  hop-gardens  of  Kent,  if  I 
was  "  the  son  of  the  Self-interpreting  Bible."  I  pos- 
sess, as  an  heirloom,  the  New  Testament  which  my 


192  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

father  fondly  regarded  as  the  one  his  grandfather, 
when  a  herd  laddie,  got  from  the  Professor  who 
heard  him  ask  for  it,  and  promised  him  it  if  he  could 
read  a  verse ;  and  he  has  in  his  beautiful  small  hand 
written  in  it  what  follows.  "  He  (John  Brown  of 
Haddington)  had  now  acquired  so  much  of  Greek  as 
encouraged  him  to  hope  that  he  might  at  length  be 
prepared  to  reap  the  richest  of  all  rewards  which 
classical  learning  could  confer  on  him,  the  capacity  of 
reading  in  the  original  tongue  the  blessed  New  Testa- 
ment of  our  Lord  and  Saviour.  Full  of  this  hope,  he 
became  anxious  to  possess  a  copy  of  the  invaluable 
volume.  One  night,  having  committed  the  charge  of 
his  sheep  to  a  companion,  he  set  out  on  a  midnight 
journey  to  St.  Andrews,  a  distance  of  twenty-four 
miles.  He  reached  his  destination  in  the  morning, 
and  went  to  the  book-seller's  shop  asking  for  a  copy 
of  the  Greek  New  Testament.  The  master  of  the 
shop,  surprised  at  such  a  request  from  a  shepherd  boy, 
was  disposed  to  make  game  of  him.  Some  of  the 
professors  coming  into  the  shop  questioned  the  lad 
about  his  employment  and  studies.  After  hearing  his 
tale,  one  of  them  desired  the  book-seller  to  bring  the 
volume.  He  did  so,  and  drawing  it  down,  said,  '  Boy, 
read  this,  and  you  shall  have  it  for  nothing.'  The 
boy  did  so,  acquitted  himself  to  the  admiration  of  his 
judges,  and  carried  off  his  Testament,  and  when  the 
evening  arrived,  was  studying  it  in  the  midst  of  his 
flock  on  the  braes  of  Abernethy."  } 

1  Memoir  of  Rev.  John  Rroicn  of  Haddington,  by  Rev.  J.  B. 
Patterson. 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  193 

"  There  is  reason  to  believe  this  is  the  New  Testa- 
ment referred  to.  The  name  on  the  opposite  page  was 
written  on  the  fly-leaf.  It  is  obviously  the  writing  of 
a  boy,  and  bears  a  resemblance  to  Mr.  Brown's  hand- 
writing in  mature  life.  It  is  imperfect,  wanting  a 
great  part  of  the  Gospel  of  Matthew.  The  autograph 
at  the  end  is  that  of  his  son,  Thomas,  when  a  youth 
at  college,  afterwards  Rev.  Dr.  Thomas  Brown  of 
Dalkeith.— J.  B." 

I  doubt  not  my  father  regarded  this  little  worn  old 
book,  the  sword  of  the  Spirit  which  his  ancestor  so 
nobly  won,  and  wore,  and  warred  with,  with  not  less 
honest  veneration  and  pride  than  does  his  dear  friend 
James  Douglas  of  Cavers  the  Percy  pennon  borne  away 
at  Otterbourne.  When  I  read,  in  Uncle  William's 
admirable  Life  of  his  father,  his  own  simple  story  of 
his  early  life,  —  his  loss  of  father  and  mother  before 
he  was  eleven,  his  discovering  (as  true  a  discovery  as 
Dr.  Young's  of  the  characters  of  the  Rosetta  stone,  or 
Rawlinson's  of  the  cuneiform  letters)  the  Greek  char- 
acters, his  defense  of  himself  against  the  astonishing 
and  base  charge  of  getting  his  learning  from  the  devil 
(that  shrewd  personage  would  not  have  employed 
him  on  the  Greek  Testament),  his  eager,  indomitable 
study,  his  running  miles  to  and  back  again  to  hear  a 
sermon  after  folding  his  sheep  at  noon,  his  keeping 
his  family  creditably  on  never  more  than  £50,  and 
for  long  on  £40  a  year,  giving  largely  in  charity,  and 
never  wanting,  as  he  said,  "  lying  money,"  —  when  I 
think  of  all  this  I  feel  what  a  strong,  independent, 


194  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

manly  nature  he  must  have  had.  We  all  know  his 
saintly  character,  his  devotion  to  learning,  and  to  the 
work  of  preaching  and  teaching  :  but  he  seems  to  have 
been,  like  most  complete  men,  full  of  humor  and  keen 
wit.  Some  of  his  snell  sayings  are  still  remembered. 
A  lad  of  an  excitable  temperament  waited  on  him, 
and  informed  him  he  wished  to  be  a  preacher  of  the 
gospel.  My  great-grandfather,  finding  him  as  weak 
in  intellect  as  he  was  strong  in  conceit,  advised  him 
to  continue  in  his  present  vocation.  The  young  man 
said,  "  But  I  wish  to  preach  and  glorify  God."  "  My 
young  friend,  a  man  may  glorify  God  making  broom 
besoms ;  stick  to  your  trade,  and  glorify  God  by  your 
walk  and  conversation." 

The  late  Dr.  Husband  of  Dunfermline  called  on 
him  when  he  was  preparing  to  set  out  for  Gifford,  and 
was  beginning  to  ask  him  some  questions  as  to  the 
place  grace  held  in  the  Divine  economy.  "  Come 
away  wi'  me,  and  1 11  expound  that ;  but  when  I  'm 
speaking,  look  you  after  my  feet."  They  got  upon  a 
rough  bit  of  common,  and  the  eager  and  full-minded 
old  man  was  in  the  midst  of  his  unfolding  the  Divine 
scheme,  and  his  student  was  drinking  in  his  words, 
and  forgetting  his  part  of  the  bargain.  His  master 
stumbled  and  fell,  and  getting  up,  somewhat  sharply 
said,  "  James,  the  grace  o'  God  can  do  much,  but  it 
canna  gi'e  a  man  common  sense  ;  "  which  is  as  good 
theology  as  sense. 

A  scoffing  blacksmith  seeing  him  jogging  up  to  a 
house  near  the  smithy  on  his  pony,  which  was  halting, 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  195 

said  to  him,  "  Mr.  Brown,  ye  're  in  the  Scripture  line 
the  day  — '  the  legs  o'  the  lame  are  not  equal.'  "  "  So 
is  a  parable  in  the  mouth  of  a  fool." 

On  his  coming  to  Haddington,  there  was  one  man 
who  held  out  against  his  "  call."  Mr.  Brown  meeting 
him  when  they  could  not  avoid  each  other,  the  non- 
content  said,  "  Ye  see,  sir,  I  canna  say  what  I  dinna 
think,  and  I  think  ye  're  ower  young  and  inexperi- 
enced for  this  charge."  "  So  I  think  too,  David,  but 
it  would  never  do  for  you  and  me  to  gang  in  the  face 
0'  the  hale  congregation  !  " 

The  following  is  a  singular  illustration  of  the  pre- 
vailing dark  and  severe  tone  of  the  religious  teach- 
ing of  that  time,  and  also  of  its  strength :  A  poor  old 
woman,  of  great  worth  and  excellent  understanding, 
in  whose  conversation  Mr.  Brown  took  much  pleasure, 
was  on  her  death-bed.  Wishing  to  try  her  faith,  he 
said  to  her,  "  Janet,  what  would  you  say  if,  after  all 
He  has  done  for  you,  God  should  let  you  drop  into, 
hell  ?  "  "  E'en 's  (even  as)  He  likes ;  if  He  does,  He  'II 
lose  mair  than  1  'II  do."  There  is  something  not 
less  than  sublime  in  this  reply. 

Than  my  grandfather  and  "Uncle  Ebenezer,"  no 
two  brothers  could  be  more  different  in  nature  or 
more  united  in  affection.  My  grandfather  was  a  man 
of  great  natural  good  sense,  well  read  and  well  know- 
leclged,  easy  but  not  indolent,  never  overflowing  but 
never  empty,  homely  but  dignified,  and  fuller  of  love 
to  all  sentient  creatures  than  any  other  human  being 
I  ever  knew.  I  had,  when  a  boy  of  ten,  two  rabbits, 


196  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

Oscar  and  Livia ;  why  so  named  is  a  secret  I  have 
lost ;  perhaps  it  was  an  Ossianic  union  of  the  Roman 
with  the  Gael.  Oscar  was  a  broad -nosed,  manly, 
rather  brusque  husband,  who  used  to  snort  when  an- 
gry, and  bite  too  ;  Livia  was  a  thin-faced,  meek,  and, 
I  fear,  deceitfulish  wife,  who  could  smile,  and  then 
bite.  One  evening  I  had  lifted  both  these  worthies, 
by  the  ears  of  course,  and  was  taking  them  from  their 
clover  to  their  beds,  when  my  grandfather,  who  had 
been  walking  out  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  met  me. 
I  had  just  kissed  the  two  creatures,  out  of  mingled 
love  to  them  and  pleasure  at  having  caught  them 
without  much  trouble.  He  took  me  by  the  chin,  and 
kissed  me,  and  then  Oscar  and  Livia  !  Wonderful 
man,  I  thought,  and  still  think !  Doubtless  he  had 
seen  me  in  my  private  fondness,  and  wished  to  please 
me. 

He  was  forever  doing  good  in  his  quiet  yet  earnest 
way.  Not  only  on  Sunday  when  he  preached  solid 
gospel  sermons,  full  of  quaint  familiar  expressions, 
such  as  I  fear  few  of  my  readers  could  take  up,  full 
of  solemn,  affectionate  appeals,  full  of  his  own  sim- 
plicity and  love,  the  Monday  also  found  him  ready 
with  his  every-day  gospel.  If  he  met  a  drover  from 
Lochaber  who  had  crossed  the  Campsie  Hills,  and 
was  making  across  Carmvath  Moor  to  the  Calstane 
Slap,  and  thence  into  England  by  the  drove-rode,  he 
accosted  him  with  a  friendly  smile,  —  gave  him  a 
reasonable  tract,  and  dropped  into  him  some  words 
of  Divine  truth.  He  was  thus  continually  doing 


MY   FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  197 

good.  Go  where  he  might,  he  had  his  message  to 
every  one :  to  a  servant  lass,  to  a  poor  wanderer  on 
the  bleak  streets,  to  gentle  and  simple,  —  he  flowed 
forever  pleno  rivo. 

Uncle  Ebenezer,  on  the  other  hand,  flowed  per 
saltum  ;  he  was  always  good  and  saintly,  but  he  was 
great  once  a  week ;  six  days  he  brooded  over  his 
message,  was  silent,  withdrawn,  self-involved ;  on  the 
Sabbath,  that  downcast,  almost  timid  man,  who 
shunned  men,  the  instant  he  was  in  the  pulpit,  stood 
up  a  son  of  thunder.  Such  a  voice  !  such  a  piercing 
eye  !  such  an  inevitable  forefinger,  held  out  trembling 
with  the  terrors  of  the  Lord ;  such  a  power  of  asking 
questions  and  letting  them  fall  deep  into  the  hearts  of 
his  hearers,  and  then  answering  them  himself,  with 
an  "Ah,  sirs  !  "  that  thrilled  and  quivered  from  him 
to  them. 

I  remember  his  astonishing  us  all  with  a  sudden 
burst.  It  was  a  sermon  upon  the  apparent  pi/is  of 
evil  in  this  world,  and  he  had  driven  himself  and  us 
all  to  despair,  —  so  much  sin,  so  much  misery,  — 
when,  taking  advantage  of  the  chapter  he  had  read, 
the  account  of  the  uproar  at  Ephesus  in  the  Thea- 
tre, he  said,  "  Ah,  sirs  !  what  if  some  of  the  men 
who,  for  '  about  the  space  of  two  hours,'  cried  out, 
'  Great  is  Diana  of  the  Ephesians,'  have  for  the 
space  of  eighteen  hundred  years  and  more  been 
crying  day  and  night,  '  Great  and  marvelous  are 
thy  works,  Lord  God  Almighty ;  just  and  true  are 
all  thy  ways,  Thou  king  of  saints ;  who  shall  not  fear 


198  MY   FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

Thee,  O  Lord,  and  glorify  thy  name  ?  for  Thou  only 
art  holy.' " 

You  have  doubtless  heard  of  the  story  of  Lord 
Brougham  going  to  hear  him.  It  is  very  character- 
istic, and  as  I  had  it  from  Mrs.  Cuninghame,  who 
was  present,  I  may  be  allowed  to  tell  it.  Brougham 
and  Denman  were  on  a  visit  to  James  Stuart  of  Dun- 
earn,  about  the  time  of  the  Queen's  trial,  They  had 
asked  Stuart  where  they  should  go  to  church ;  he  said 
he  would  take  them  to  a  Seceder  minister  at  Inver- 
keithing.  They  went,  and  as  Mr.  Stuart  had  de- 
scribed the  saintly  old  man,  Brougham  said  he  would 
like  to  be  introduced  to  him,  and  arriving  before  ser- 
vice time,  Mr.  Stuart  called,  and  left  a  message  that 
some  gentlemen  wished  to  see  him.  The  answer  was 
that  "  Maister "  Brown  saw  nobody  before  divine 
worship.  He  then  sent  in  Brougham  and  Denman's 
names.  "  Mr.  Brown's  compliments  to  Mr.  Stuart, 
and  he  sees  nobody  before  sermon,  and  in  a  few  min- 
utes out  came  the  stooping,  shy  old  man,  and  passed 
them,  unconscious  of  their  presence.  They  sat  in 
the  front  gallery,  and  he  preached  a  faithful  sermon, 
full  of  fire  and  of  native  force.  They  came  away 
greatly  moved,  and  each  wrote  to  Lord  Jeffrey  to 
lose  not  a  week  in  coming  to  hear  the  greatest  nat- 
ural orator  they  had  ever  heard.  Jeffrey  came  next 
Sunday,  and  often  after  declared  he  never  heard  such 
words,  such  a  sacred,  untaught  gift  of  speech.  Noth- 
ing was  more  beautiful  than  my  father's  admiration 
and  emotion  when  listening  to  his  uncle's  rapt  pas- 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  199 

sages,  or  than  his  childlike  faith  in  my  father's  exe- 
getical  prowess.  He  used  to  have  a  list  of  difficult 
passages  ready  for  "my  nephew,"  and  the  moment 
the  oracle  gave  a  decision,  the  old  man  asked  him  to 
repeat  it,  and  then  took  a  permanent  note  of  it,  and 
would  assuredly  preach  it  some  day  with  his  own 
proper  unction  and  power.  One  story  of  him  I  must 
give  ;  my  father,  who  heard  it  not  long  before  his 
own  death,  was  delighted  with  it,  and  for  some  days 
repeated  it  to  every  one.  Uncle  Ebenezer,  with  all 
his  mildness  and  general  complaisance,  was,  like  most 
of  the  Browns,  tenax  propositi,  firm  to  obstinacy. 
He  had  established  a  week-day  sermon  at  the  North 
Ferry,  about  two  miles  from  his  own  town,  Inver- 
keithing.  It  was,  I  think,  on  the  Tuesdays.  It  was 
winter,  and  a  wild,  drifting,  and  dangerous  day  ;  his 
daughters  —  his  wife  was  dead  —  besought  him  not 
to  go ;  he  smiled  vaguely,  but  continued  getting  into 
his  big-coat.  Notliing  would  stay  him,  and  away  he 
and  the  pony  stumbled  through  the  dumb  and  blind- 
ing snow.  He  was  half  way  on  his  journey,  and  had 
got  into  the  sermon  he  was  going  to  preach,  and  was 
utterly  insensible  to  the  outward  storm:  his  pony 
getting  its  feet  batted,  staggered  about,  and  at  last 
upset  his  master  and  himself  into  the  ditch  at  the 
roadside.  The  feeble,  heedless,  rapt  old  man  might 
have  perished  there,  had  not  some  carters,  bringing  up 
whiskey  casks  from  the  Ferry,  seen  the  catastrophe, 
and  rushed  up,  raising  him,  and  dichtin'  him,  with 
much  commiseration  and  blunt  speech :  "  Puir  auld 


200  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

man,  what  broeht  ye  here  in  sic  a  day  ?  "  There 
they  were,  a  rough  crew,  surrounding  the  saintly 
man,  some  putting  on  his  hat,  sorting  and  cheering 
him,  and  others  knocking  the  balls  off  the  pony's 
feet  and  stuffing  them  with  grease.  He  was  most  po- 
lite and  grateful,  and  one  of  these  cordial  ruffians 
having  pierced  a  cask,  brought  him  a  horn  of  whiskey, 
and  said,  "Tak  that,  it  '11  hearten  ye."  He  took  the 
horn,  and  bowing  to  them,  said,  "  Sirs,  let  us  give 
thanks !  "  and  there,  by  the  roadside,  in  the  drift  and 
storm,  with  these  wild  fellows,  he  asked  a  blessing  on 
it,  and  for  his  kind  deliverers,  and  took  a  tasting  of 
the  horn.  The  men  cried  like  children.  They  lifted 
him  on  his  pony,  one  going  with  him,  and  when  the 
rest  arrived  in  Inverkeithing,  they  repeated  the  story 
to  everybody,  and  broke  down  in  tears  whenever 
they  came  to  the  blessing.  "  And  to  think  o'  askin' 
a  blessin'  on  a  tass  o'  whiskey  !  "  Next  Presbytery 
day,  after  the  ordinary  business  was  over,  he  rose  up 
—  he  seldom  spoke  —  and  said,  "  Moderator,  I  have 
something  personal  to  myself  to  say.  I  have  often 
said  that  real  kindness  belongs  only  to  true  Chris- 
tians, but"  —  and  then  he  told  the  story  of  thesp 
men  ;  "but  more  true  kindness  I  never  experienced 
than  from  these  lads.  They  may  have  had  the  grace 
of  God,  I  don't  know ;  but  I  never  mean  again  to  be 
so  positive  in  speaking  of  this  matter." 

When  he  was  on  a  missionary  tour  in  the  north 
he  one  morning  met  a  band  of  Highland  shearers  on 
their  way  to  the  harvest ;  he  asked  them  to  stop  and 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  201 

hear  the  word  of  God.  They  said  they  could  not,  as 
they  had  their  wages  to  work  for.  He  offered  them 
what  they  said  they  would  lose ;  to  this  they  agreed, 
and  he  paid  them,  and  closing  his  eyes  engaged  in 
prayer ;  when  he  had  ended,  he  looked  up,  and  his 
congregation  had  vanished  !  His  shrewd  brother 
Thomas,  to  whom  he  complained  of  this  faithlessness, 
said,  "  Ehen,  the  next  time  ye  pay  folk  to  hear  you 
preach,  keep  your  eyes  open,  and  pay  them  when  you 
are  done."  I  remember,  on  another  occasion,  in 
Bristo  Church,  with  an  immense  audience,  he  had 
been  going  over  the  Scripture  accounts  of  great  sin- 
ners repenting  and  turning  to  God,  repeating  their 
names,  from  Manasseh  onwards.  He  seemed  to  have 
closed  the  record,  when,  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  end  of 
the  central  passage,  he  called  out  abruptly,  "  I  see  a 
man  !  "  Every  one  looked  to  that  point.  "  I  see  a 
man  of  Tarsus  ;  and  he  says,  Make  mention  of  me  !  " 
It  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  discourses  of  "  Un- 
cle Ebenezer,"  with  these  abrupt  appeals  and  sudden 
starts,  were  unwritten  or  extempore  ;  they  were  care- 
fully composed  and  written  out,  —  only  these  flashes 
of  thought  and  passion  came  on  him  suddenly  when 
writing,  and  were  therefore  quite  natural  when  deliv- 
ered —  they  came  on  him  again. 

The  Rev.  John  Belfrage,  M.  D.,  had  more  power 
over  my  father's  actions  and  his  relations  to  the 
world,  than  any  other  of  his  friends:  over  his 
thoughts  and  convictions  proper,  not  much,  —  few 
living  men  had,  and  eveu  among  the  mighty  dead, 


202  MY  FATHER'S  .  MEMOIR. 

he  called  no  man  master.  He  used  to  say  that  the 
three  master  intellects  devoted  to  the  study  of  divine 
truth  since  the  apostles  were  Augustine,  Calvin,  and 
Jonathan  Edwards ;  but  that  even  they  were  only 
primi  inter  pares,  —  this  by  the  by. 

On  all  that  concerned  his  outward  life  as  a  public 
teacher,  as  a  father,  and  as  a  member  of  society,  he 
consulted  Dr.  Belfrage,  and  was  swayed  greatly  by 
his  judgment,  as,  for  instance,  the  choice  of  a  profes- 
sion for  myself,  his  second  marriage,  etc.  He  knew 
him  to  be  his  true  friend,  and  not  only  wise  and  hon- 
est, but  preeminently  a  man  of  affairs,  capax  rerum. 
Dr.  Belfrage  was  a  great  man  in  posse,  if  ever  I  saw 
one,  —  "a  village  Hampden."  Greatness  was  of  his 
essence ;  nothing  paltry,  nothing  secondary,  nothing 
untrue.  Large  in  body,  large  and  handsome  in  face, 
lofty  in  manner  to  his  equals  or  superiors  ; l  homely, 
familiar,  cordial  with  the  young  and  the  poor,  —  I 
never  met  with  a  more  truly  royal  nature  —  more  na- 
tive and  endued  to  rule,  guide,  and  benefit  mankind. 
He  was  forever  scheming  for  the  good  of  others,  and 
chiefly  in  the  way  of  helping  them  to  help  themselves. 
From  a  curious  want  of  ambition  —  his  desire  for  ad- 
vancement was  for  that  of  his  friends,  not  for  his 

1  On  one  occasion,  Mr.  Hall  of  Kelso,  an  excellent  but  very 
odd  man,  in  whom  the  ego  was  very  strong-,  and  who,  if  he 
had  been  born  a  Spaniard,  would,  to  adopt  Coleridge's  story, 
have  taken  off  or  touched  his  hat  whenever  he  spoke  of  him- 
self, met  Dr.  Belfrage  in  the  lobby  of  the  Synod,  and  drawing 
himself  up  as  he  passed,  he  muttered,  "high  and  michty  1  " 
"There  's  a  pair  of  us,  Mr.  Hall." 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  203 

own,  and  here  he  was  ambitious  and  zealous  enough, 
—  from  non-concentration  of  his  faculties  in  early  life, 
and  from  an  affection  of  the  heart  which  ultimately 
killed  him  —  it  was  too  big  for  his  body,  and,  under 
the  relentless  hydrostatic  law,  at  last  shattered  the 
tabernacle  it  moved,  like  a  steam-engine  too  power- 
ful for  the  vessel  it  finds  itself  in  —  his  mental  heart 
also  was  too  big  for  his  happiness,  —  from  these 
causes,  along  with  a  love  for  gardening,  which  was  a 
passion,  and  an  inherited  competency,  which  took 
away  what  John  Hunter  calls  "  the  stimulus  of  neces- 
sity," you  may  understand  how  this  remarkable  man, 
instead  of  being  a  Prime  Minister,  a  Lord  Chan- 
cellor, or  a  Dr.  Gregory,  a  George  Stephenson,  or 
likeliest  of  all,  a  John  Howard,  without  some  of  his 
weaknesses,  lived  and  died  minister  of  the  small  con- 
gregation of  Slateford,  near  Edinburgh.  It  is  also 
true  that  he  was  a  physician,  and  an  energetic  and 
successful  one,  and  got  rid  of  some  of  his  love  of 
doing  good  to  and  managing  human  beings  in  this 
way ;  he  was  also  an  oracle  in  his  district,  to  whom 
many  had  the  wisdom  to  go  to  take  as  well  as  ask 
advice,  and  who  was  never  weary  of  entering  into 
the  most  minute  details,  and  taking  endless  pains, 
being  like  Dr.  Chalmers  a  strong  believer  in  "  the 
power  of  littles."  It  would  be  out  of  place,  though 
it  would  be  not  uninteresting,  to  tell  how  this  great 
resident  power  —  this  strong  will  and  authority,  this 
capacious,  clear,  and  beneficent  intellect  —  dwelt  in 
its  petty  sphere,  like  an  oak  in  a  flower-pot ;  but  I 


204  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

cannot  help  recalling  that  signal  act  of  friendship  and 
of  power  in  the  matter  of  my  father's  translation 
from  Rose  Street  to  Broughton  Place,  to  which  you 
have  referred. 

It  was  one  of  the  turning-points  of  my  father's  his- 
tory. Dr.  Belfrage,  though  seldom  a  speaker  in  the 
public  courts  of  his  church,  was  always  watchful  of 
the  interests  of  the  people  and  of  his  friends.  On 
the  Rose  Street  question  he  had  from  the  beginning 
formed  a  strong  opinion.  My  father  had  made  his 
statement,  indicating  his  leaning,  but  leaving  himself 
absolutely  in  the  hands  of  the  Synod.  There  was 
some  speaking,  all  on  one  side,  and  for  a  time  the 
Synod  seemed  to  incline  to  be  absolute,  and  refuse 
the  call  of  Broughton  Place.  The  house  was  every- 
where crowded,  and  breathless  with  interest,  my 
father  sitting  motionless,  anxious,  and  pale,  prepai-ed 
to  submit  without  a  word,  but  retaining  his  own 
mind  ;  everything  looked  like  a  unanimous  decision 
for  Rose  Street,  when  Dr.  Belfrage  rose  up  and 
came  forward  into  the  "  passage,"  and  with  his  first 
sentence  and  look  took  possession  of  the  house.  He 
stated,  with  clear  and  simple  argument,  the  truth  and 
reason  of  the  case ;  and  then  having  fixed  himself 
there,  he  took  up  the  personal  interests  and  feelings 
of  his  friend,  and  putting  before  them  what  they 
were  about  to  do  in  sending  back  my  father,  closed 
with  a  burst  of  indignant  appeal  —  "I  ask  you  now, 
not  as  Christians,  I  ask  you  as  gentlemen,  are  you 
prepared  to  do  this  ?  "  Every  one  felt  it  was  settled, 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  205 

and  so  it  was.     My  father  never  forgot  this   great 
act  of  his  friend. 

This  remarkable  man,  inferior  to  my  father  in 
learning,  in  intensity,  in  compactness,  and  in  power 
of  —  so  to  speak  —  focusing  himself,  —  admiring 
his  keen  eloquence,  his  devotedness  to  his  sacred  art, 
rejoicing  in  his  fame,  jealous  of  his  honor,  —  was,  by 
reason  of  his  own  massive  understanding,  his  warm 
and  great  heart,  and  his  instinctive  knowledge  of 
men,  my  father's  most  valued  friend,  for  he  knew 
best  and  most  of  what  my  father  knew  least ;  and  on 
his  death,  my  father  said  he  felt  himself  thus  far  un- 
protected and  unsafe.  He  died  at  Rothesay  of  hy- 
pertrophy of  the  heart.  I  had  the  sad  privilege  of 
being  with  him  to  the  last ;  and  any  nobler  spectacle 
of  tender,  generous  affection,  high  courage,  childlike 
submission  to  the  Supreme  Will,  and  of  magnanimity 
in  its  true  sense,  I  do  not  again  expect  to  see.  On 
the  morning  of  his  death  he  s-aid  to  me,  "John,  come 
and  tell  me  honestly  how  this  is  to  end ;  tell  me  the 
last,  symptoms  in  their  sequence."  I  knew  the  man, 
and  was  honest,  and  told  him  all  I  knew.  "  Is  there 
any  chance  of  stupor  or  delirium  ?  "  "  I  think  not. 
Death  (to  take  Bichat's  division)  will  begin  at  the 
heart  itself,  and  you  will  die  conscious."  "  I  am 
glad  of  that.  It  was  Samuel  Johnson,  was  n't  it,  who 
wished  not  to  die  unconscious,  that  he  might  enter 
the  eternal  world  with  his  mind  unclouded  ;  but  you 
know,  John,  that  was  physiological  nonsense.  We 
leave  the  brain,  and  all  this  ruined  body,  behind  ; 


206  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

but  I  would  like  to  be  in  my  senses  when  I  take  my 
last  look  of  this  wonderful  world,"  looking  across  the 
still  sea  towards  the  Argyleshire  hills,  lying  in  the 
light  of  sttnrise,  "  and  of  my  friends,  —  of  you,"  fix- 
ing his  eyes  on  a  faithful  friend  and  myself.  And 
it  was  so ;  in  less  than  an  hour  he  was  dead,  sitting 
erect  in  his  chair,  —  his  disease  had  for  weeks  pre- 
vented him  from  lying  down,  —  all  the  dignity,  sim- 
plicity, and  benignity  of  its  master  resting  upon,  and, 
as  it  were,  supporting  that  "  ruin,"  which  he  had 
left. 

I  cannot  end  this  tribute  to  my  father's  friend  and 
mine,  and  my  own  dear  and  earliest  friend's  father, 
without  recording  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  in- 
stances of  the  power  of  will,  under  the  pressure  of 
affection,  I  ever  witnessed  or  heard  of.  Dr.  Belfrage 
was  twice  married.  His  second  wife  was  a  woman 
of  great  sweetness  and  delicacy,  not  only  of  mind, 
but,  to  his  sorrow,  of  constitution.  She  died  after 
less  than  a  year  of  singular  and  unbroken  happiness. 
There  was  no  portrait  of  her.  He  resolved  there 
should  be  one  ;  and  though  utterly  ignorant  of  draw- 
ing, he  determined  to  do  it  himself.  No  one  else 
could  have  such  a  perfect  image  of  her  in  his  mind, 
and  he  resolved  to  realize  this  image.  He  got  the 
materials  for  miniature  painting,  and,  I  think,  eight 
prepared  ivory  plates.  He  then  shut  himself  up  from 
every  one  and  from  everything,  for  fourteen  days,  and 
came  out  of  his  room,  wasted  and  feeble,  with  one  of 
the  plates  (the  others  he  had  used  and  burnt),  on 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  207 

which  was  a  portrait,  full  of  subtle  likeness,  and  drawn 
and  colored  in  a  way  no  one  could  have  dreamt  of, 
having  had  such  an  artist.  I  have  seen  it ;  and  though 
I  never  saw  the  original  I  felt  that  it  must  be  like,  as 
indeed  every  one  who  knew  her  said  it  was.  I  do 
not,  as  I  said  before,  know  anything  more  remark- 
able in  the  history  of  human  sorrow  and  resolve. 

I  remember  well  that  Dr.  Belfrage  was  the  first 
man  I  ever  heard  speak  of  Free-trade  in  religion  and 
in  education.  It  was  during  the  first  election  after 
the  Reform  Bill,  when  Sir  John  Dalrymple,  after- 
wards Lord  Stair,  was  canvassing  the  county  of  Mid- 
Lothian.  They  were  walking  in  the  doctor's  garden, 
Sir  John  anxious  and  gracious.  Dr.  Belfrage,  like, 
I  believe,  every  other  minister  in  his  body,  was  a 
thorough-going  Liberal,  what  was  then  called  a 
Whig ;  but  partly  from  his  natural  sense  of  humor 
and  relish  of  power,  and  partly,  I  believe,  for  my 
benefit,  he  was  putting  the  Baronet  through  his  fac- 
ings with  some  strictness,  opening  upon  him  startling 
views,  and  ending  by  asking  him,  "  Are  you,  Sir 
John,  for  free-trade  in  corn,  free-trade  in  education, 
free -trade  in  religion?  I  am."  Sir  John  said, 
"  Well,  doctor,  I  have  heard  of  free-trade  in  corn, 
but  never  in  the  other  two."  "  You  '11  hear  of  them 
before  ten  years  are  gone,  Sir  John,  or  I  'm  mis- 
taken." 

I  have  said  thus  much  of  this  to  me  memorable  man, 
not  only  because  he  was  my  father's  closest  and  most 
powerful  personal  friend,  but  because  by  his  word  he 


208  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

probably  changed  the  whole  future  course  of  his  life. 
Devotion  to  his  friends  was  one  of  the  chief  ends  of 
his  life,  not  caring  much  for,  and  having  in  the  affec- 
tion of  his  heart  a  warning  against,  the  perils  and  ex- 
citement of  distinction  and  energetic  public  work,  he 
set  himself  far  more  strenuously  than  for  any  selfish 
object  to  promote  the  triumphs  of  those  whom  his  ac- 
quired instinct  —  for  he  knew  a  man  as  a  shepherd 
knows  a  sheep,  or  "  Caveat  Emptor "  a  horse  — 
picked  out  as  deserving  them.  He  rests  in  Colinton 
churchyard,  — 

"  Where  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still,"  — 
his  only  child  William  Henry  buried  beside  him.  I 
the  more  readily  pay  this  tribute  to  Dr.  Belfrage,  thrft 
I  owe  to  him  the  best  blessing  of  my  professional  and 
one  of  the  best  of  my  personal  life,  —  the  being  ap- 
prenticed to  Mr.  Syrne.  This  was  his  doing.  With 
that  sense  of  the  capacities  and  capabilities  of  other 
men,  which  was  one  of  his  gifts,  he  predicted  the  ca- 
reer of  this  remarkable  man.  He  used  to  say,  "  Give 
him  life,  let  him  live,  and  I  know  what  and  where  he 
will  be  thirty  years  hence  ;  "  and  this  long  before  our 
greatest  clinical  teacher  and  wisest  surgeon  had  made 
the  public  and  the  profession  feel  and  acknowledge 
the  full  weight  of  his  worth. 

Another  life-long  and  ever  strengthening  friendship 
was  that  with  James  Henderson,  D.  D.,  Galashiels, 
who  survived  my  father  only  a  few  days.  This  re- 
markable man  and  exquisite  preacher,  whose  intellect 
and  worth  had  for  nearly  fifty  years  glowed  with  a 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  209 

pure,  steady,  and  ever-growing  warmth  and  lustre  in 
his  own  region,  died  during  the  night  and  probably 
asleep,  when,  like  Moses,  no  one  but  his  Maker  was 
with  him.  He  had  for  years  labored  under  that  form 
of  disease  of  the  heart  called  angina  pectoris  (Dr. 
Arnold's  disease),  and  for  more  than  twenty  years 
lived,  as  it  were,  on  the  edge  of  instant  death  ;  but 
during  his  later  years  his  health  had  improved,  though 
he  had  always  to  "walk  softly,"  like  one  whose  next 
step  might  be  into  eternity.  This  bodily  sense  of  peril 
gave  to  his  noble  and  leonine  face  a  look  of  suffering 
and  of  seriousness,  and  of  what,  in  his  case,  we  may 
truly  call  godly  fear,  which  all  must  remember.  He 
\ised  to  say  he  carried  his  grave  beside  him.  He 
came  in  to  my  father's  funeral,  and  took  part  in  the 
services.  He  was  much  affected,  and  we  fear  the  long 
walk  through  the  city  to  the  burial-place  was  too  much 
for  him  ;  he  returned  home,  preached  a  sermon  of 
surpassing  beauty  on  his  old  and  dear  friend's  death. 
The  text  was,  "  For  me  to  live  is  Christ,  and  to  die  is 
gain."  It  was,  as  it  were,  his  own  funeral  sermon 
too,  and  there  was,  besides  its  fervor,  depth,  and  heav- 
enly-mindedness,  a  something  in  it  that  made  his  old 
hearers  afraid  —  as  if  it  were  to  be  the  last  crush  of 
the  grapes.  In  a  letter  to  me  soon  after  the  funeral, 
he  said  :  "  His  removal  is  another  memento  to  me  that 
my  own  courseis  drawing  near  to  its  end.  Nearly  all 
of  my  contemporaries  and  of  the  friends  of  my  youth 
are  now  gone  before  me.  Well !  I  may  say,  in  the 
words  of  your  friend  Vaughan,  — 


210  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

They  are  all  gone  to  that  world  of  light, 

And  I  alone  sit  lingering  here  ; 
Their  very  memory  's  calm  and  bright, 

And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  cheer.'  " 

The  evening  before  his  death  he  was  slightly  unwell, 
and  next  morning,  not  coming  down  as  usual,  was 
called,  but  did  not  answer ;  and  on  going  in,  was  found 
in  the  posture  of  sleep,  quite  dead :  at  some  unknown 
hour  of  the  night  dbilt  adplures —  he  had  gone  over 
to  the  majority,  and  joined  the  famous  nations  of  the 
dead.  Tn  vero  felix  non  vitce  tantum  claritate,  sed 
etiam  opportunitate  mortis !  dying  with  his  lamp 
burning,  his  passport  made  out  for  his  journey ;  death 
an  instant  act,  not  a  prolonged  process  of  months,  as 
with  his  friend. 

I  have  called  Dr.  Henderson  a  remarkable  man 
and  an  exquisite  preacher  ;  he  was  both,  in  the  strict 
senses  of  the  words.  He  had  the  largest  brain  I  ever 
saw  or  measured.  His  hat  had  to  be  made  for  him  ; 
and  his  head  was  great  in  the  nobler  regions,  the  an- 
terior and  upper  were  full,  indeed  immense.  If  the 
base  of  his  brain  and  his  physical  organization,  espe- 
cially his  circulating  system,  had  been  in  proportion, 
he  would  have  been  a  man  of  formidable  power,  but 
his  defective  throb  of  the  heart,  and  a  certain  lenti- 
tude  of  temperament,  made  this  impossible ;  and  his 
enormous  organ  of  thought  and  feeling,  being  thus 
shut  from  the  outlet  of  active  energy,  became  intensely 
meditative,  more  this  than  even  reflective.  The  con- 
sequence was,  in  all  his  thoughts  an  exquisiteness  and 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  211 

finish,  a  crystalline  lustre,  purity  and  concentration ; 
but  it  was  the  exquisiteness  of  a  great  nature.  If  the 
first  edge  was  fine,  it  was  the  sharp  end  of  the  wedge, 
the  hroad  end  of  which  you  never  reached,  but  might 
infer.  This  gave  momentum  to  everything  he  said. 
He  was  in  the  true  sense  what  Chalmers  used  to  call 
"  a  man  of  wecht"  His  mind  acted  by  its  sheer  ab- 
solute power  ;  it  seldom  made  an  effort ;  it  was  the  hy- 
draulic pressure,  harmless,  manageable,  but  irresisti- 
ble ;  not  the  perilous  compression  of  steam.  Therefore 
it  was  that  he  was  untroubled  and  calm,  though  rich ; 
clear,  though  deep;  though  gentle,  never  dull ;  "strong 
without  rage,  without  o'erflowing  full."  Indeed  this 
element  of  water  furnishes  the  best  figure  of  his  mind 
and  its  expression.  His  language  was  like  the  stream 
of  his  own  Tweed ;  it  was  a  translucent  medium,  only 
it  brightened  everything  seen  through  it,  as  wetting 
a  pebble  brings  out  its  lines  and  color.  That  lovely, 
and  by  him  much-loved  river  was  curiously  like  him, 
or  he  like  it,  gentle,  great,  strong,  with  a  prevailing 
mild  seriousness  all  along  its  course,  but  clear  and 
quiet ;  sometimes,  as  at  old  Melrose,  turning  upon  it- 
self, reflecting,  losing  itself  in  beauty,  and  careless  to 
go,  deep  and  inscrutable,  but  stealing  away  cheerily 
down  to  Lessudden,  all  the  clearer  of  its  rest ;  and 
then  again  at  the  Trows,  showing  unmistakably  its 
power  in  removing  obstructions  and  taking  its  own 
way,  and  chafing  nobly  with  the  rocks,  sometimes,  too, 
like  him,  its  silver  stream  rising  into  sudden  flood, 
and  rolling  irresistibly  on  its  way.1 

1  Such  an  occasional  paroxysm  of  eloquence  is  thus  described 


212  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

We  question  if  as  many  carefully  thought  and 
worded,  and  rapidly  and  by  no  means  laboriously 
written  sermons,  were  composed  anywhere  else  in 
Britain  during  his  fifty  years  —  every  Sunday  two 
new  ones  ;  the  composition  faultless  —  such  as  Cicero 
or  Addison  would  have  made  them,  had  they  been 
TJ.  P.  ministers ;  only  there  was  always  in  them  more 
soul  than  body,  more  of  the  spirit  than  of  the  letter. 
What  a  contrast  to  the  much  turbid,  hot,  hasty,  per- 
ilous stuff  of  our  day  and  preachers  !  The  original 
power  and  size  of  Dr.  Henderson's  mind,  his  roomi- 
ness for  all  thoughts,  and  his  still  reserve,  his  lenti- 
tude,  made,  as  we  have  said,  his  expressions  clear 
and  quiet,  to  a  degree  that  a  coarse  and  careless  man, 
spoiled  by  the  violence  and  noise  of  other  pulpit  men, 
might  think  insipid.  But  let  him  go  over  the  words 
slowly,  and  he  would  not  say  this  again  ;  and  let  him 

by  Dr.  Cairns :  "  At  certain  irregular  intervals,  when  the 
loftier  themes  of  the  gospel  ministry  were  to  be  handled,  his 
manner  underwent  a  transformation  which  was  startling,  and 
even  electrical.  He  became  rapt  and  excited  as  with  new 
inspiration  ;  his  utterance  grew  thick  and  rapid  ;  his  voice 
trembled  and  faltered  with  emotion ;  his  eye  gleamed  with  a 
wild  unearthly  lustre,  in  which  his  countenance  shared ;  and 
his  whole  frame  heaved  to  and  fro,  as  if  each  glowing  thought 
and  vivid  figure  that  followed  in  quick  succession  were  only  a 
fragment  of  some  greater  revelation  which  he  panted  to  over- 
take. The  writer  of  this  notice  has  witnessed  nothing  similar 
in  any  preacher,  and  numbers  the  effects  of  a  passage  \vhich 
he  once  heard  upon  the  scenes  and  exercises  of  the  heavenly 
world  among  his  most  thrilling  recollections  of  sacred  oratory." 
—  Memoir  prefixed  to  posthumous  volume  of  Discourses. 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  213 

see  and  feel  the  solemnizing,  commanding  power  of 
that  large,  square,  leonine  countenance,  the  broad 
massive  frame,  as  of  a  compressed  Hercules,  and  the 
living,  pure,  melodious  voice,  powerful,  but  not  by 
reason  of  loudness,  dropping  out  from  his  compressed 
lips  the  words  of  truth,  and  he  would  not  say  this 
again.  His  voice  had  a  singular  pathos  in  it ;  and 
those  who  remember  his  often-called-for  sermon  on 
"The  Bright  and  the  Morning  Star,"  can  reproduce 
in  their  mind  its  tones  and  refrain.  The  thoughts  of 
such  men  —  so  rare,  so  apt  to  be  unvisited  and  un- 
valued —  often  bring  into  my  mind  a  spring  of  pure 
water  I  once  saw  near  the  top  of  Cairngorm ;  always 
the  same,  cool  in  summer,  keeping  its  few  plants  alive 
and  happy  with  its  warm  breath  in  winter,  floods  and 
droughts  never  making  its  pulse  change  ;  and  all  this 
because  it  came  from  the  interior  heights,  and  was 
distilled  by  nature's  own  cunning,  and  had  taken  its 
time,  —  was  indeed  a  well  of  living  water.  And  with 
Dr.  Henderson  this  of  the  mountain  holds  curiously  ; 
he  was  retired,  but  not  concealed  ;  and  he  was  of  the 
primary  formation,  he  had  no  organic  remains  of 
other  men  in  him ;  he  liked  and  fed  on  all  manner  of 
literature ;  knew  poetry  well ;  but  it  was  all  outside 
of  him ;  his  thoughts  were  essentially  his  own. 

He  was  peculiarly  a  preacher  for  preachers,  as 
Spenser  is  a  poet  for  poets.  They  felt  he  was  a 
master.  He  published,  after  the  entreaties  of  years, 
a  volume  of  sermons  which  has  long  been  out  of  print, 
and  which  he  would  never  prepare  for  a  second 


214  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

edition ;  he  had  much  too  little  of  the  love  of  fame, 
and  though  not  destitute  of  self  -  reliance  and  self- 
value,  and  resolved  and  unchangeable  to  obstinacy, 
he  was  not  in  the  least  degree  vain. 

But  you  will  think  I  am  writing  more  about  my 
father's  friends  and  myself  than  about  him.  In  a 
certain  sense  we  may  know  a  man  by  his  friends  ;  a 
man  chooses  his  friends  from  harmony,  not  from 
sameness,  just  as  we  would  rather  sing  in  parts  than 
all  sing  the  air.  One  man  fits  into  the  mind  of  an- 
other not  by  meeting  his  points,  but  by  dovetailing  ; 
each  finds  in  the  other  what  he  in  a  double  sense 
wants.  This  was  true  of  my  father's  friends.  Dr. 
Balmer  was  like  him  in  much  more  than  perhaps 
any,  —  in  love  of  books  and  lonely  study,  in  his  gen- 
eral views  of  divine  truth,  and  in  their  metaphysical 
and  literary  likings,  —  but  they  differed  deeply.  Dr. 
Balmer  was  serene  and  just  rather  than  subtle  and 
profound  ;  his  was  the  still,  translucent  stream,  —  my 
father's  the  rapid,  and  it  might  be  deep ;  on  the  one 
you  could  safely  sail,  the  other  hurried  you  on,  and 
yet  never  were  two  men,  during  a  long  life  of  inti- 
mate intercourse,  more  cordial. 

I  must  close  the  list ;  one  only  and  the  best  —  the 
most  endeared  of  them  all  —  Dr.  Heugh.  He  was, 
in  mental  constitution  and  temper,  perhaps  more  un- 
like my  father  than  any  of  the  others  I  have  men- 
tioned. His  was  essentially  a  practical  understanding ; 
he  was  a  man  of  action,  a  man  for  men  more  than  for 
man,  the  curious  reverse  in  this  of  my  father.  He 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  215 

delighted  in  public  life,  had  a  native  turn  for  affairs, 
for  all  that  society  needs  and  demands,  —  clear- 
headed, ready,  intrepid,  adroit ;  with  a  fine  temper, 
but  keen  and  honest,  with  an  argument  and  a  question 
and  a  joke  for  every  one ;  not  disputatious,  but  de- 
lighting in  a  brisk  argument,  fonder  of  wrestling  than 
of  fencing,  but  ready  for  action  ;  not  much  of  a  long 
shot,  always  keeping  his  eye  on  the  immediate,  the 
possible,  the  attainable,  but  in  all  this  guided  by 
genuine  principle,  and  the  finest  honor  and  exactest 
truth.  He  excelled  in  the  conduct  of  public  business, 
saw  his  way  clear,  made  other  men  see  theirs,  was 
forever  getting  the  Synod  out  of  difficulties  and  con- 
fusions, by  some  clear,  tidy,  conclusive  "  motion ; " 
and  then  his  speaking,  so  easy  and  bright  and  pithy, 
manly  and  gentlemanly,  grave  when  it  should  be, 
never  when  it  should  not ;  mobile,  fearless,  rapid, 
brilliant  as  Saladin  :  his  silent,  pensive,  impassioned 
and  emphatic  friend  was  more  like  the  lion-hearted 
Richard,  with  his  heavy  mace ;  he  might  miss,  but 
let  him  hit,  and  there  needed  no  repetition.  Each 
admired  the  other  ;  indeed  Dr.  Heugh's  love  of  my 
father  was  quite  romantic ;  and  though  they  were 
opposed  on  several  great  public  questions,  such  as  the 
Apocrypha  controversy,  the  Atonement  question  at 
its  commencement ;  and  though  they  were  both  of 
them  too  keen  and  too  honest  to  mince  matters  or  be 
mealy-mouthed,  they  never  misunderstood  each  other, 
never  had  a  shadow  of  estrangement,  so  that  our 
Paul  and  Barnabas,  though  their  contentions  were 


216  MY  FATHER'S  MKMOIR. 

sometimes  sharp  enough,  never  "  departed  asunder  ;  " 
indeed  they  loved  each  other  the  longer  the  more. 

Take  him  all  in  all,  as  a  friend,  as  a  gentleman, 
as  a  Christian,  as  a  citizen,  I  never  knew  a  man 
so  thoroughly  delightful  as  Dr.  Heugh.  Others  had 
more  of  this  or  more  of  that,  but  there  was  a  sym- 
metry, a  compactness,  a  sweetness,  a  true  delightful- 
ness  about  him  I  can  remember  in  no  one  else.  No 
man,  with  so  much  temptation  to  be  heady  and  high- 
minded,  sarcastic,  and  managing,  from  his  overflowing 
wit  and  talent,  was  ever  more  natural,  more  honest, 
or  more  considerate,  indeed  tender-hearted.  He  was 
full  of  animal  spirits  and  of  fun,  and  one  of  the  best 
wits  and  jokers  I  ever  knew ;  and  such  an  asker  of 
questions,  of  posers !  "VVe  children  had  a  pleasing 
dread  of  that  nimble,  sharp,  exact  man,  who  made  us 
explain  and  name  everything.  Of  Scotch  stories  he 
had  as  many  original  ones  as  would  make  a  second 
volume  for  Dean  Ramsay.  How  well  I  remember  the 
very  corner  of  the  room  in  Biggar  manse,  forty  years 
ago,  when  from  him  I  got  the  first  shock  and  relish 
of  humor,  —  became  conscious  of  mental  tickling,  — 
of  a  word  being  made  to  carry  double,  and  being  all 
the  lighter  of  it.  It  is  an  old  story  now,  but  it  was 
new  then :  a  big,  perspiring  countryman  rushed  into 
the  Black  Bull  coach-office,  and  holding  the  door, 
shouted,  "  Are  yer  insides  a'  oot  ?  "  This  was  my 
first  tasting  of  the  flavor  of  a  joke. 

Had  Dr.  Heugh,  instead  of  being  the  admirable 
clergyman  he  was,  devoted  himself  to  public  civil 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  217 

life,  and  gone  into  Parliament,  he  would  have  taken 
a  high  place  as  a  debater,  a  practical  statesman  and 
patriot.  He  had  many  of  the  best  qualities  of  Can- 
ning, and  our  own  Premier,  with  purer  and  higher 
qualities  than  either.  There  is  no  one  our  church 
should  be  more  proud  of  than  of  this  beloved  and 
excellent  man,  the  holiness  and  humility,  the  jealous, 
godly  fear  in  whose  nature  was  not  known  fully  even 
to  his  friends  till  he  was  gone,  when  his  private  daily 
self-searchings  and  prostrations  before  his  Master 
and  Judge  were  for  the  first  time  made  known. 
There  are  few  characters,  both  sides  of  which  are  so 
unsullied,  so  pure,  and  without  reproach. 

I  am  back  at  Biggar  at  the  old  sacramental  times ; 
I  see  and  hear  my  grandfather,  or  Mr.  Home  of 
Braehead,  Mr.  Leckie  of  Peebles,  Mr.  Harper  of 
Lanark,  as  inveterate  in  argument  as  he  was  warm 
in  heart,  Mr.  Comrie  of  Penicuik,  with  his  keen,  Vol- 
taire-like face,  and  much  of  that  unhappy  and  unique 
man's  wit  and  sense,  and  perfection  of  expression, 
without  his  darker  and  baser  qualities.  I  can  hear 
their  hearty  talk,  can  see  them  coming  and  going  be- 
tween the  meeting-house  and  the  Tent  on  the  side  of 
the  burn  ;  and  then  the  Monday  dinner,  and  the  cheer- 
ful talk,  and  the  many  clerical  stories  and  pleasant- 
ries, and  their  going  home  on  their  hardy  little 
horses,  Mr.  Comrie  leaving  his  curl-papers  till  the 
next  solemnity,  and  leaving  also  some  joke  of  his 
own,  clear  and  compact  as  a  diamond,  and  as  cutting. 

I  am  in  Rose  Street  on  the  monthly  lecture,  the 


218  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

church  crammed,  passages  and  pulpit  stairs.  Exact 
to  a  minute,  James  Chalmers — the  old  soldier  and 
beadle,  slim,  meek,  but  incorruptible  by  proffered 
half  crowns  from  ladies  who  thus  tried  to  get  in  be- 
fore the  doors  opened  —  appears,  and  all  the  people 
in  that  long  pew  rise  up,  and  he,  followed  by  his  min- 
ister, erect  and  engrossed,  walks  in  along  the  seat, 
and  they  struggle  up  to  the  pulpit.  We  all  know 
what  he  is  to  speak  of ;  he  looks  troubled  even  to  dis- 
tress ;  —  it  is  the  matter  of  Uriah  the  Hittite.  He 
gives  out  the  opening  verses  of  the  51st  Psalm,  and 
offering  up  a  short  and  abrupt  prayer,  which  every  one 
takes  to  himself,  announces  his  miserable  and  dread- 
ful subject,  fencing  it,  as  it  were,  in  a  low  penetra- 
ting voice,  daring  any  one  of  us  to  think  an  evil 
thought.  There  was  little  need  at  that  time  of  the 
warning  ;  he  infused  his  own  intense,  pure  spirit  into 
us  all. 

He  then  told  the  story  without  note  or  comment, 
only  personating  each  actor  in  the  tragedy  with  ex- 
traordinary effect,  above  all,  the  manly,  loyal,  simple- 
hearted  soldier.  I  can  recall  the  shudder  of  that 
multitude  as  of  one  man  when  he  read,  "  And  it  came 
to  pass  in  the  morning,  that  David  wrote  a  letter  to 
Joab,  and  sent  it  by  the  hand  of  Uriah.  And  he 
wrote  in  the  letter,  saying,  Set  ye  Uriah  in  the  fore 
front  of  the  hottest  battle,  and  retire  ye  from  him, 
that  he  may  be  smitten  and  die."  And  then,  after  a 
long  and  utter  silence,  his  exclaiming,  "  Is  this  the 
man  according  to  God's  own  heart  ?  Yes,  it  is  ;  we 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  219 

must  believe  that  both  are  true."  Then  came  Nathan. 
"  There  were  two  men  in  one  city  ;  the  one  rich,  and 
the  other  poor.  The  rich  man  had  exceeding  many 
flocks  and  herds  ;  but  the  poor  man  had  nothing,  save 
one  little  ewe  lamb,"  —  and  all  that  exquisite,  that 
divine  fable,  ending  like  a  thunder -clap  with  "  Thou 
art  the  man ! "  Then  came  the  retribution,  so 
awfully  exact  and  thorough,  —  the  misery  of  the 
child's  death ;  that  brief  tragedy  of  the  brother  and 
sister,  more  terrible  than  anything  in  ^Eschylus,  in 
Dante,  or  in  Ford  ;  then  the  rebellion  of  Absalom, 
with  its  hideous  dishonor,  and  his  death,  and  the  king 
covering  his  face,  and  crying  in  a  loud  voice,  "  O  my 
son  Absalom  !  O  Absalom  !  my  son  !  my  son  !  "  — 
and  David's  psalm,  "  Have  mercy  upon  me,  O  God, 
according  to  thy  loving-kindness  ;  according  unto  the 
multitude  of  thy  tender  mercies  blot  out  my  trans- 
gressions," —  then  closing  with,  "  Yes  ;  '  when  lust 
hath  conceived,  it  bringeth  forth  sin  ;  and  sin,  when 
it  is  finished,  bringeth  forth  death.  Do  not  err,'  do 
not  stray,  do  not  transgress  (/xr/  TrXavacrOe),1  '  my  be- 
loved brethren,'  it  is  first  '  earthly,  then  sensual,  then 
devilish  ; '  "  he  shut  the  book,  and  sent  us  all  away 
terrified,  shaken,  and  humbled  like  himself. 

I  would  fain  say  a  few  words  on  my  father's  last  ill- 
ness, or  rather  on  what  led  to  it,  and  I  wish  you  and 
others  in  the  ministry  would  take  to  heart,  as  mat- 
ter of  immediate  religious  duty,  much  of  what  I  am 

1  James  i.  15, 16.  It  is  plain  that "  Do  not  err  "  should  have 
been  in  verse  15th. 


220  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

going  to  say.  My  father  was  a  seven  months'  child, 
and  lay,  I  believe,  for  a  fortnight  in  black  wool,  un- 
dressed, doing  little  but  breathe  and  sleep,  not  capa- 
ble of  being  fed.  He  continued  all  his  life  slight  in 
make,  and  not  robust  in  health,  though  lively,  and 
capable  of  great  single  efforts.  His  attendance  upon 
his  mother  must  have  saddened  his  body  as  well  as 
his  mind,  and  made  him  willing  and  able  to  endure, 
in  spite  of  his  keen  and  ardent  spirit,  the  sedentary 
life  he  in  the  main  led.  He  was  always  a  very  small 
eater,  and  nice  in  his  tastes,  easily  put  off  from  his 
food  by  any  notion.  He  therefore  started  on  the  full 
work  of  life  with  a  finer  and  more  delicate  mechan- 
ism than  a  man's  ought  to  be  ;  indeed,  in  these  re- 
spects, he  was  much  liker  a  woman,  and  being  very 
soon  "  placed,"  he  had  little  traveling,  and  little  of 
that  tossing  about  the  world  which,  in  the  transition 
from  youth  to  manhood,  hardens  the  frame  as  well 
as  supples  it.  Though  delicate  he  was  almost  never 
ill.  I  do  not  remember,  till  near  the  close  of  his  life, 
his  ever  being  in  bed  a  day. 

From  his  nervous  system,  and  his  brain  predomi- 
nating steadily  over  the  rest  of  his  body,  he  was  ha- 
bitually excessive  in  his  professional  work.  As  to 
quantity,  as  to  quality,  as  to  manner  and  expression, 
he  flung  away  his  life  without  stint  every  Sabbath- 
day,  his  sermons  being  laboriously  prepared,  loudly 
mandated,  and  at  great  expense  of  body  and  mind, 
and  then  delivered  with  the  utmost  vehemence  and 
rapidity.  He  was  quite  unconscious  of  the  state  he 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  221 

worked  himself  into,  and  of  the  loud  piercing  voice 
in  which  he  often  spoke.  This  I  frequently  warned 
him  about,  as  being,  I  knew,  injurious  to  himself,  and 
often  painful  to  his  hearers,  and  his  answer  always 
was,  that  he  was  utterly  unaware  of  it ;  and  thus  it 
continued  to  the  close,  and  very  sad  it  was  to  me  who 
knew  the  peril,  and  saw  the  coming  end,  to  listen  to 
his  noble,  rich,  persuasive,  imperative  appeals,  and  to 
know  that  the  surplus  of  power,  if  retained,  would, 
by  God's  blessing,  retain  him,  while  the  effect  on  his 
people  would,  I  am  sure,  not  have  lost,  but  in  some 
respects  have  gained,  for  much  of  the  discourse  which 
was  shouted  and  sometimes  screamed  at  the  full  pitch 
of  his  keen  voice  was  of  a  kind  to  be  better  rendered 
in  his  deep,  quiet,  settled  tones.  This,  and  the  great 
length  of  his  public  services,  I  knew  he  himself  felt, 
when  too  late,  had  injured  him,  and  many  a  smile  he 
had  at  my  proposal  to  have  a  secret  sub-congrega- 
tional string  from  him  to  me  in  the  back  seat,  to  be 
authoritatively  twitched  when  I  knew  he  had  done 
enough  ;  but  this  string  was  never  pulled,  even  in  his 
mind. 

He  went  on  in  this  expensive  life,  sleeping  very 
little,  and  always  lightly,  eating  little,  never  walking 
except  of  necessity ;  little  in  company,  when  he  would 
have  eaten  more  and  been,  by  the  power  of  social  rel- 
ish, made  likelier  to  get  the  full  good  out  of  his  food ; 
never  diverting  his  mind  by  any  change  but  that  of 
one  book  or  subject  for  another  ;  and  every  time  that 
any  strong  affliction  came  on  him,  as  when  made 


222  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

twice  a  widower,  or  at  his  daughter's  death,  or  from 
such  an  outrage  upon  his  entire  nature  and  feelings  as 
the  Libel,  then  his  delicate  machinery  was  shaken  and 
damaged,  not  merely  by  the  first  shock,  but  even 
more  by  that  unrelenting  self-command  by  which  he 
terrified  his  body  into  instant  submission.  Thus  it 
was,  and  thus  it  ever  must  be,  if  the  laws  of  our  bod- 
ily constitution,  laid  down  by  Him  who  knows  our 
frame,  and  from  whom  our  substance  is  not  hid,  are 
set  at  nought,  knowingly  or  not,  —  if  knowingly,  the 
act  is  so  much  the  more  spiritually  bad ;  but  if  not, 
it  is  still  punished  with  the  same  unerring  nicety,  the 
same  commensurate  meting  out  of  the  penalty,  and 
paying  "  in  full  tale,"  as  makes  the  sun  to  know  his 
time,  and  splits  an  erring  planet  into  fragments,  driv- 
ing it  into  space  "  with  hideous  ruin  and  combustion." 
It  is  a  pitiful  and  a  sad  thing  to  say,  but  if  my  father 
had  not  been  a  prodigal  in  a  true  but  very  different 
meaning,  if  he  had  not  spent  his  substance,  the  portion 
of  goods  that  fell  to  him,  the  capital  of  life  given  him 
by  God,  in  what  we  must  believe  to  have  been  need- 
less and  therefore  preventable  excess  of  effort,  we 
might  have  had  him  still  with  us,  shining  more  and 
more,  and  he  and  they  who  were  with  him  would 
have  been  spared  those  two  years  of  the  valley  of  the 
shadow,  with  its  sharp  and  steady  pain,  its  fallings 
away  of  life,  its  longing  for  the  grave,  its  sleepless 
nights  and  days  of  weariness  and  languor,  the  full  ex- 
pression of  winch  you  will  find  nowhere  but  in  the 
Psalms  and  in  Job. 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  223 

I  have  said  that  though  delicate  he  was  never  ill : 
this  was  all  the  worse  for  him,  for,  odd  as  it  may  seem, 
many  a  man's  life  is  lengthened  by  a  sharp  illness ; 
and  this  in  several  ways.  In  the  first  place,  he  is  laid 
up,  out  of  the  reach  of  all  external  mischief  and  exer- 
tion ;  he  is  like  a  ship  put  in  dock  for  repairs ;  time  is 
gained.  A  brisk  fever  clarifies  the  entire  man  ;  if  it 
is  beaten  and  does  not  beat,  it  is  like  cleaning  a  chim- 
ney by  setting  it  on  fire  ;  it  is  perilous  but  thorough. 
Then  the  effort  to  throw  off  the  disease  often  quickens 
and  purifies  and  corroborates  the  central  powers  of 
life ;  the  flame  burns  more  clearly  ;  there  is  a  clean- 
ness, so  to  speak,  about  all  the  wheels  of  life.  More- 
over, it  is  a  warning,  and  makes  a  man  meditate  on 
his  bed,  and  resolve  to  pull  up ;  and  it  warns  his 
friends,  and  likewise,  if  he  is  a  clergyman,  his  people, 
who  if  their  minister  is  always  with  them,  never  once 
think  he  can  be  ever  anything  but  as  able  as  he  is. 

Such  a  pause,  such  a  breathing-time  my  father 
never  got  during  that  part  of  his  life  and  labors  when 
it  would  have  availed  most,  and  he  was  an  old  man  in 
years  before  he  was  a  regular  patient  of  any  doctor. 
He  was  during  life  subject  to  sudden  headaches,  af- 
fecting his  memory  and  eyesight,  and  even  his  speech  ; 
these  attacks  were,  according  to  the  thoughtless  phrase 
of  the  day,  called  bilious ;  that  is,  he  was  sick,  and 
was  relieved  by  a  blue  pill  and  smart  medicine. 
Their  true  seat  was  in  the  brain ;  the  liver  suffered 
because  the  brain  was  ill,  and  sent  no  nervous  energy 
to  it,  or  poisoned  what  it  did  send.  The  sharp  rack- 


224  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

ing  pain  in  the  forehead  was  the  cry  of  suffering  from 
the  anterior  lobes,  driven  hy  their  master  to  distrac- 
tion, and  turning  on  him  wild  with  weakness  and  fear 
and  anger.  It  was  well  they  did  cry  out ;  in  some 
brains  (large  ones)  they  would  have  gone  on  dumb 
to  sudden  and  utter  ruin,  as  in  apoplexy  or  palsy ; 
but  he  did  not  know,  and  no  one  told  him  their  true 
meaning,  and  he  sate  about  seeking  for  the  outward 
cause  in  some  article  of  food,  in  some  recent  and  quite 
inadequate  cause. 

He  used,  with  a  sort  of  odd  shame  and  distress,  to 
ask  me  why  it  was  that  he  was  subjected  to  so  much 
suffering  from  what  he  called  the  lower  and  ignoble 
regions  of  his  body ;  and  I  used  to  explain  to  him 
that  he  had  made  them  suffer  by  long  years  of  neglect, 
and  that  they  were  now  having  their  revenge,  and  in 
their  own  way.  I  have  often  found  that  the  more 
the  nervous  centres  are  employed  in  those  offices  of 
thought  and  feeling  the  most  removed  from  material 
objects,  —  the  more  the  nervous  energy  of  the  entire 
nature  is  concentrated,  engrossed,  and  used  up  in  such 
offices,  —  so  much  the  more,  and  therefore,  are  those 
organs  of  the  body  which  preside  over  that  organic  life, 
common  to  ourselves  and  the  lowest  worm,  defrauded 
of  their  necessary  nervous  food ;  and  being  in  the 
organic  and  not  in  the  animal  department,  and  having 
no  voice  to  tell  their  wants  or  wrongs,  till  they  wake 
up  and  annoy  their  neighbors  who  have  a  voice,  that 
is,  who  are  sensitive  to  pain,  they  may  have  been  long 
ill  before  they  come  into  the  sphere  of  consciousness. 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  225 

This  is  the  true  reason  —  along  with  want  of  purity 
and  change  of  air,  want  of  exercise,1  want  of  shifting 
the  work  of  the  body  —  why  clergymen,  men  of  let- 
ters, and  all  men  of  intense  mental  application,  are  so 
liable  to  be  affected  with  indigestion,  constipation, 
lumbago,  and  lowness  of  spirits,  melancholia,  —  black 
bile.  The  brain  may  not  give  way  for  long,  because 
for  a  time  the  law  of  exercise  strengthens  it ;  it  is  fed 
high,  gets  the  best  of  everything,  of  blood  and  nervous 
pabulum,  and  then  men  have  a  joy  in  the  victorious 
work  of  their  brain,  and  it  has  a  joy  of  its  own,  too, 
which  deludes  and  misleads. 

All  this  happened  to  my  father.  He  had  no  formal 
disease  when  he  died,  —  no  structural  change ;  his 
sleep  and  his  digestion  would  have  been  quite  sufficient 
for  life  even  up  to  the  last ;  the  mechanism  was  entire, 
but  the  motive-power  was  gone,  —  it  was  expended. 
The  silver  cord  was  not  so  much  loosed  as  relaxed. 
The  golden  bowl,  the  pitcher  at  the  fountain,  the 
wheel  at  the  cistern,  were  not  so  much  broken  as 
emptied  and  stayed.  The  clock  had  run  down  before 
its  time,  and  there  was  no  one  but  He  who  first  wound 
it  up  and  set  it  who  could  wind  it  up  again ;  and  this 
He  does  not  do,  because  it  is  His  law  —  an  express 
injunction  from  Him  —  that,  having  measured  out  to 

"  The  youth  Story  was  in  all  respects  healthy,  and  even  ro- 
bust ;  he  died  of  overwork,  or  rather,  as  I  understand,  of  a  two 
years'  almost  total  want  of  exercise,  which  it  was  impossible  to 
induce  him  to  take."  —  Arnold's  Report  to  the  Committee  of 
Council  on  Education,  1860. 


226  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

his  creatures  each  his  measure  of  life,  and  left  him  to 
the  freedom  of  his  own  will  and  the  regulation  of  his 
reason,  He  also  leaves  him  to  reap  as  he  sows. 

Thus  it  was  that  ray  father's  illness  was  not  so 
much  a  disease  as  a  long  death  ;  life  ebbing  away, 
consciousness  left  entire,  the  certain  issue  never  out 
of  sight.  This,  to  a  man  of  my  father's  organization, 
—  with  a  keen  relish  for  life,  and  its  highest  pleas- 
ures and  energies,  sensitive  to  impatience,  and  then 
over-sensitive  of  his  own  impatience ;  cut  to  the  heart 
with  the  long  watching  and  suffering  of  those  he 
loved,  who,  after  all,  could  do  so  little  for  him  ;  with 
a  nervous  system  easily  sunk,  and  by  its  strong  play 
upon  his  mind  darkening  and  saddening  his  most 
central  beliefs,  shaking  his  most  solid  principles,  tear- 
ing and  terrifying  his  tenderest  affections  ;  his  mind 
free  and  clear,  ready  for  action  if  it  had  the  power, 
eager  to  be  in  its  place  in  the  work  of  the  woi-ld  and 
of  its  Master ; — to  have  to  spend  two  long  years  in  this 
ever-descending  road,  —  here  was  a  combination  of 
positive  and  negative  suffering  not  to  be  thought  of 
even  now,  when  it  is  all  sunk  under  that  "far  more 
exceeding  and  eternal  weight  of  glory." 

He  often  spoke  to  me  freely  about  his  health, 
went  into  it  with  the  fearlessness,  exactness,  and  per- 
sistency of  his  nature  ;  and  I  never  witnessed,  or 
hope  to  witness,  anything  more  affecting  than  when, 
after  it  had  been  dawning  upon  him,  he  apprehended 
the  true  secret  of  his  death.  He  was  deeply  hum- 
bled, felt  that  he  had  done  wrong  to  himself,  to  his 


MY   FATHER'S   MEMOIR.  227 

people,  to  us  all,  to  his  faithful  and  long-suffering 
Master ;  and  he  often  said,  with  a  dying  energy 
lighting  up  his  eye,  and  nerving  his  voice  and  ges- 
ture, that  if  it  pleased  God  to  let  him  again  speak  in 
his  old  place,  he  would  not  only  proclaim  again,  and, 
he  hoped,  more  simply  and  more  fully,  the  everlast- 
ing gospel  to  lost  man,  but  proclaim  also  the  gospel 
of  God  to  the  body,  the  religious  and  Christian  duty 
and  privilege  of  living  in  obedience  to  the  divine 
laws  of  health.  He  was  delighted  when  I  read  to 
him,  and  turned  to  this  purpose  that  wonderful  pas- 
sage of  St.  Paul :  "  For  the  body  is  not  one  mem- 
ber, but  many.  If  the  whole  body  were  an  eye, 
where  were  the  hearing  ?  If  the  whole  were  hearing, 
where  were  the  smelling?  But  now  hath  God  set 
the  members  every  one  of  them  in  the  body,  as  it 
hath  pleased  him.  And  the  eye  cannot  say  unto  the 
hand,  I  have  no  need  of  thee  ;  nor  again  the  head  to 
the  feet,  I  have  no  need  of  you.  Nay,  much  more 
those  members  of  the  body,  which  seem  to  be  more 
feeble,  are  necessary  ; "  summing  it  all  up  in  words 
with  life  and  death  in  them :  "  that  there  should 
be  no  schism  in  the  body ;  but  that  the  members 
should  have  the  same  care  one  for  another.  And 
whether  one  member  suffer,  all  the  members  suffer 
with  it ;  or  one  member  be  honored,  all  the  mem- 
bers rejoice  with  it." 

The  lesson  from  all  this  is,  Attend  to  your  bodies, 
study  their  structure,  functions,  and  laws.  This 
does  not  at  all  mean  that  you  need  be  an  anatomist, 


228  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

or  go  deep  into  physiology,  or  the  doctrines  of  pre- 
vention and  cure.  Not  only  has  each  organism  a 
resident  doctor,  placed  there  by  Him  who  can  thus 
heal  all  our  diseases,  but  this  doctor,  if  watched  and 
waited  on,  informs  any  man  or  woman  of  ordinary 
sense  what  things  to  do,  and  what  things  not  to  do. 
And  I  would  have  you,  who,  I  fear,  not  un frequently 
sin  in  the  same  way,  and  all  our  ardent,  self-sacrificing 
young  ministers,  to  reflect  whether,  after  destroying 
themselves  and  dying  young,  they  have  lost  or  gained. 
It  is  said  that  God  raises  up  others  in  our  place. 
God  gives  you  no  title  to  say  this.  Men  —  such  men 
as  I  have  in  my  mind  —  are  valuable  to  God  in  pro- 
portion to  the  time  they  are  here.  They  are  the 
older,  the  better,  the  riper  and  richer,  and  more  en- 
riching. Nothing  will  make  up  for  this  absolute  loss 
of  life.  For  there  is  something  which  every  man 
who  is  a  good  workman  is  gaining  every  year  just 
because  he  is  older,  and  this  nothing  can  replace. 
Let  a  man  remain  on  his  ground,  say  a  country  par- 
ish, during  half  a  century  or  more,  —  let  him  be 
every  year  getting  fuller  and  sweeter  in  the  knowl- 
edge of  God  and  man,  in  utterance  and  in  power,  — 
can  the  power  of  that  man  for  good  over  all  his  time, 
and  especially  towards  its  close,  be  equaled  by  that 
of  three  or  four  young  and,  it  may  be,  admirable 
men,  who  have  been  succeeding  each  other's  untimely 
death,  during  the  same  space  of  time  ?  It  is  against 
all  spiritual  as  well  as  all  simple  arithmetic  to  say  so. 
You  have  spoken  of  my  father's  prayers.  They 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  229 

were  of  two  kinds :  the  one,  formal,  careful,  system- 
atic, and  almost  stereotyped,  remarkable  for  fullness 
and  compression  of  thought ;  sometimes  too  mani- 
festly the  result  of  study,  and  sometimes  not  purely 
prayer,  but  more  of  the  nature  of  a  devotional  and 
even  argumentative  address;  the  other,  as  in  the  fam- 
ily, short,  simple,  and  varied.  He  used  to  tell  of  his 
master,  Dr.  Lawson,  reproving  him,  in  his  honest 
but  fatherly  way,  as  they  were  walking  home  from 
the  Hall.  My  father  had  in  his  prayer  the  words, 
"  that  through  death  he  might  destroy  him  that  had 
the  power  of  death,  —  that  is,  the  devil."  The  old 
man,  leaning  on  his  favorite  pupil,  said,  "  John,  my 
man,  you  need  not  have  said  '  that  is  the  devil ;  '  you 
might  have  been  sure  that  He  knew  whom  you 
meant."  My  father,  in  theory,  held  that  a  mixture 
of  formal,  fixed  prayer,  in  fact,  a  liturgy,  along 
with  extempore  prayer,  was  the  right  thing.  As  you 
observe,  many  of  his  passages  in  prayer  all  who 
were  in  the  habit  of  hearing  him  could  anticipate, 
such  as  "  the  enlightening,  enlivening,  sanctifying, 
and  comforting  influences  of  the  good  Spirit,"  and 
many  others.  One  in  especial  you  must  remember  ; 
it  was  only  used  on  very  solemn  occasions,  and  curi- 
ously unfolds  his  mental  peculiarities  ;  it  closed  his 
prayer  :  "  And  now,  unto  Thee,  O  Father,  Son,  and 
Holy  Ghost,  the  one  Jehovah  and  our  God,  we  would 
—  as  is  most  meet  —  with  .the  church  on  earth  and 
the  church  in  heaven,  ascribe  all  honor  and  glory, 
dominion  and  majesty,  as  it  was  in  the  beginning,  is 


230  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

now,  and  ever  shall  be,  world  without  end.  Amen." 
Nothing  could  be  liker  him  than  the  interjection,  "  as 
is  most  meet."  Sometimes  his  abrupt,  short  state- 
ments in  the  Synod  were  very  striking.  On  one  oc- 
casion, Mr.  James  Morison  having  stated  his  views 
as  to  prayer  very  strongly,  denying  that  a  sinner 
can  pray,  my  father,  turning  to  the  Moderator,  said, 
"  Sir,  let  a  man  feel  himself  to  be  a  sinner,  and,  for 
anything  the  universe  of  creatures  can  do  for  him, 
hopelessly  lost,  —  let  him  feel  this,  sir,  and  let  him 
get  a  glimpse  of  the  Saviour,  and  all  the  eloquence 
and  argument  of  Mr.  Morison  will  not  keep  that 
man  from  crying  out,  '  God  be  merciful  to  me  a 
sinner.'  That,  sir,  is  prayer,  —  that  is  acceptable 
prayer." 

There  must  be,  I  fear,  now  and  then  an  apparent 
discrepancy  between  you  and  me,  especially  as  to  the 
degree  of  mental  depression  which  at  times  over- 
shadowed my  father's  nature.  You  will  understand 
this,  and  I  hope  our  readers  will  make  allowance  for 
it.  Some  of  it  is  owing  to  my  constitutional  tendency 
to  overstate,  and  much  of  it  to  my  having  had  per- 
haps more  frequent,  and  even  more  private,  insights 
into  this  part  of  his  life.  But  such  inconsistency  as 
that  I  speak  of  —  the  coexistence  of  a  clear,  firm 
faith,  a  habitual  sense  of  God  and  of  his  infinite 
mercy,  the  living  a  life  of  faith,  as  if  it  was  in  his 
organic  and  inner  life,  more  than  in  his  sensational 
and  outward  —  is  quite  compatible  with  that  tendency 
to  distrust  himself,  that  bodily  darkness  and  mourn- 


MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR.  231 

fulness,  which  at  times  came  over  him.  Any  one 
who  knows  "  what  a  piece  of  work  is  man ; "  how 
composite,  how  varying,  how  inconsistent  human 
nature  is,  that  we  each  of  us  are 

"  Some  several  men,  all  in  an  hour," 

•will  not  need  to  be  told  to  expect,  or  how  to  har- 
monize, these  differences  of  mood.  You  see  this  in 
that  wonderful  man,  the  Apostle  Paul,  the  true  typical 
fullness,  the  kumanness,  so  to  speak,  of  whose  nature 
comes  out  in  such  expressions  of  opposites  as  these : 
"  By  honor  and  dishonor,  by  evil  report  and  good 
report :  as  deceivers,  and  yet  true  ;  as  unknown,  and 
yet  well  known ;  as  dying,  and,  behold,  we  live ;  as 
chastened,  and  not.  killed ;  as  sorrowful,  yet  ahvay 
rejoicing ;  as  poor,  yet  making  many  rich ;  as  having 
nothing,  and  yet  possessing  all  things." 

I  cannot — and  after  your  impressive  and  exact  his- 
tory of  his  last  days  I  need  not  —  say  anything  of  the 
close  of  those  long  years  of  suffering,  active  and  pas- 
sive, and  that  slow  ebbing  of  life ;  the  body,  without 
help  or  hope,  feeling  its  doom  steadily  though  slowly 
drawing  on ;  the  mind  mourning  for  its  suffering 
friend,  companion,  and  servant ;  mourning  also,  some- 
times, that  it  must  be  "  unclothed,"  and  take  its  flight 
all  alone  into  the  infinite  unknown ;  dying  daily,  not 
in  the  heat  of  fever,  or  in  the  insensibility  or  lethargy 
of  paralytic  disease,  but  having  the  mind  calm  and 
clear,  and  the  body  conscious  of  its  own  decay,  — 
dying,  as  it  were,  in  cold  blood.  One  thing  I  must 


232  MY  FATHER'S  MEMOIR. 

add.  That  morning  when  you  were  obliged  to  leave, 
and  when  "  cold  obstruction's  apathy  "  had  already 
begun  its  reign,  when  he  knew  us,  and  that  was  all, 
and  when  he  followed  us  with  his  dying  and  loving 
eyes,  but  could  not  speak,  —  the  end  came  ;  and  then, 
as  through  life,  his  will  asserted  itself  supreme  in 
death.  With  that  love  of  order  and  decency  which 
was  a  law  of  his  life,  he  deliberately  composed  him- 
self, placing  his  body  at  rest,  as  if  setting  his  house 
in  order  before  leaving  it,  and  then  closed  his  eyes 
and  mouth,  so  that  his  last  look  —  the  look  his  body 
carried  to  the  grave  and  faced  dissolution  in  —  was 
that  of  sweet,  dignified  self-possession. 

I  have  made  this  letter  much  too  long,  and  have 
said  many  things  in  it  I  never  intended  saying,  and 
omitted  much  I  had  hoped  to  be  able  to  say.  But  I 
must  end. 

Yours  ever  affectionately, 

J.  BROWN. 


DR.  CHALMERS. 

WHEN,  towards  the  close  of  some  long  summer  day, 
we  come  suddenly,  and,  as  we  think,  before  his  time, 
upon  the  broad  sun,  "  sinking  down  in  his  tranquillity  " 
into  the  unclouded  west,  we  cannot  keep  our  eyes 
from  the  great  spectacle ;  and  when  he  is  gone  the 
shadow  of  him  haunts  our  sight :  we  see  everywhere 

—  upon  the  spotless  heaven,  upon  the  distant  moun- 
tains, upon  the  fields,  and  upon  the  road  at  our  feet 

—  that  dim,   strange,   changeful  image;  and   if  our 
eyes  shut,  to  recover  themselves,  we  still  find  in  them, 
like  a  dying  flame,  or  like  a  gleam  in  a  dark  place, 
the  unmistakable  phantom   of  the  mighty  orb  that 
has  set ;  and  were  we  to  sit  down,  as  we  have  often 
done,  and  try  to  record  by  pencil  or  by  pen  our  im- 
pression of  that  supreme  hour,  still  would  IT  be  there. 
We  must  have  patience  with  our  eye,  it  will  not  let 
the  impression  go  ;  that  spot  on  which  the  radiant 
disk  was  impressed  is  insensible  to  all  other  outward 
things,  for  a  time :  its  best  relief  is,  to  let  the  eye 
wander  vaguely  over  earth  and  sky,  and  repose  itself 
on  the  mild  shadowy  distance. 

So  it  is  when  a  great  and  good  and  beloved  man 
departs,  sets,  —  it  may  be  suddenly,  and  to  us  who 


234  DR.    CHALMERS. 

know  not  the  times  and  the  seasons,  too  soon.  We 
gaze  eagerly  at  his  last  hours,  and  when  he  is  gone, 
never  to  rise  again  on  our  sight,  we  see  his  image 
wherever  we  go,  and  in  whatsoever  we  are  engaged, 
and  if  we  try  to  record  by  words  our  wonder,  our  sor- 
row, and  our  affection,  we  cannot  see  to  do  it,  for  the 
"  idea  of  his  life  "  is  forever  coming  into  our  "  study 
of  imagination,"  into  all  our  thoughts,  and  we  can 
do  little  else  than  let  our  mind,  in  a  wise  passiveness, 
hush  itself  to  rest. 

The  sun  returns  ;  he  knows  his  rising,  — 

"  To-morrow  he  repairs  his  drooping  head, 

And  tricks  his  beams,  and  with  new  spangled  ore 
Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky ;  " 

but  man  lieth  down,  and  riseth  not  again  till  the 
heavens  are  no  more.  Never  again  will  he  whose 
"Meditations"  are  now  hefore  us  lift  up  the  light  of 
his  countenance  upon  us. 

We  need  not  say  we  look  upon  him  as  a  great  man, 
at>  a  good  man,  as  a  beloved  man,  —  quis  des'ulnrln 
sit  pudor  tarn  cari  capitis  ?  We  cannot  now  go 
very  curiously  to  work  to  scrutinize  the  composition 
of  his  character,  —  we  cannot  take  that  large,  free, 
genial  nature  to  pieces,  and  weigh  this  and  measure 
that,  and  sum  up  and  pronounce ;  we  are  too  near  as 
yet  to  him  and  to  his  loss,  he  is  too  dear  to  us  to  be 
so  handled.  "  His  death,"  to  use  the  pathetic  words 
of  Hartley  Coleridge,  "  is  a  recent  sorrow ;  his  image 
still  lives  in  eyes  that  weep  for  him."  The  prevailing 
feeling  is,  He  is  gone  —  "abiit  ad  plures  —  he  has 


DR.   CHALMERS.  235 

gone  over  to  the  majority,  he  has  joined  the  famous 
nations  of  the  dead." 

It  is  no  small  loss  to  the  world,  when  one  of  its 
master  spirits,  one  of  its  great  lights,  a  king  among 
the  nations,  leaves  it.  A  sun  is  extinguished  ;  a  great 
attractive,  regulating  power  is  withdrawn.  For  though 
it  be  a  common,  it  is  also  a  natural  thought,  to  com- 
pare a  great  man  to  the  sun ;  it  is  in  many  respects 
significant.  Like  the  sun,  he  rules  his  day,  and  he 
is  "  for  a  sign  and  for  seasons,  and  for  days  and  for 
years ; "  he  enlightens,  quickens,  attracts,  and  leads 
after  him  his  host,  his  generation. 

To  pursue  our  image.  When  the  sun  sets  to  us,  he 
rises  elsewhere  —  he  goes  on  rejoicing,  like  a  strong 
man,  running  his  race.  So  does  a  great  man :  when 
he  leaves  us  and  our  concerns,  he  rises  elsewhere ; 
and  we  may  reasonably  suppose  that  one  who  has  in 
this  world  played  a  great  part  in  its  greatest  histories, 
who  has  through  a  long  life  been  preeminent  for 
promoting  the  good  of  men  and  the  glory  of  God, 
will  be  looked  upon  with  keen  interest  when  he  joins 
the  company  of  the  immortals.  They  must  have 
heard  of  his  fame  ;  they  may  in  their  ways  have  seen 
and  helped  him  already. 

Every  one  must  have  trembled  when  reading  that 
passage  in  Isaiah,  in  which  Hell  is  described  as  moved 
to  meet  Lucifer  at  his  coming  :  there  is  not  in  human 
language  anything  more  sublime  in  conception,  more 
exquisite  in  expression  ;  it  has  on  it  the  light  of  the 
terrible  crystal.  But  may  we  not  reverse  the  scene  ? 


236  DR.    CHALMERS. 

May  we  not  imagine,  when  a  great  and  good  man,  a 
son  of  the  morning,  enters  on  his  rest,  that  Heaven 
would  move  itself  to  meet  him  at  his  coming  ?  That 
it  would  stir  up  its  dead,  even  all  the  chief  ones  of 
the  earth,  and  that  the  kings  of  the  nations  would 
arise  each  one  from  his  throne  to  welcome  their  bro- 
ther ?  that  those  who  saw  him  would  ';  narrowly  con- 
sider him,"  and  say,  "  Is  this  he  who  moved  nations, 
enlightened  and  bettered  his  fellows,  and  whom  the 
great  Taskmaster  welcomes  with  '  Well  done  !  ' ' 

We  cannot  help  following  him  whose  loss  we  now 
mourn  into  that  region,  and  figuring  to  ourselves  his 
great,  childlike  spirit,  when  that  unspeakable  scene 
bursts  upon  his  view,  when,  as  by  some  inward,  in- 
stant sense,  he  is  conscious  of  God,  of  the  imme- 
diate presence  of  the  All-seeing  Unseen  ;  when  he 
beholds  "  His  honorable,  true,  and  only  Son,"  face  to 
face,  enshrined  in  "  that  glorious  form,  that  light  un- 
sufferable,  and  that  far-beaming  blaze  of  majesty," 
that  brightness  of  His  glory,  that  express  image  of 
His  person  ;  when  he  is  admitted  into  the  goodly  fel- 
lowship of  the  apostles,  the  glorious  company  of  the 
prophets,  the  noble  army  of  martyrs,  the  general  as- 
sembly of  just  men,  and  beholds  with  his  loving  eyes 
the  myriads  of  "  little  ones,"  outnumbering  their 
elders  as  the  dust  of  stars  with  which  the  galaxy  is 
filled  exceeds  in  multitude  the  hosts  of  heaven. 

What  a  change  !  death  the  gate  of  life  —  a  second 
birth,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye :  this  moment,  weak, 
fearful,  in  the  amazement  of  death ;  the  next,  strong, 


DR.   CHALMERS.  237 

joyful,  —  at  rest,  —  all  things  new  !  To  adopt  his 
own  words  :  all  his  life,  up  to  the  last,  "  knocking  at 
a  door  not  yet  opened,  with  an  earnest  indefinite 
longing,  his  very  soul  breaking  for  the  longing, 
drinking  of  water,  and  thirsting  again  "  —  and  then 
—  suddenly  and  at  once  —  a  door  opened  into 
heaven,  and  the  Master  heard  saying,  "  Come  in, 
and  come  up  hither ! "  drinking  of  the  river  of 
life,  clear  as  crystal,  of  which  if  a  man  drink  he 
will  never  thirst,  being  filled  with  all  the  fullness  of 
God! 

Dr.  Chalmers  was  a  ruler  among  men :  this  we 
know  historically  ;  this  every  man  who  came  within 
his  range  felt  at  once.  He  was  like  Agamemnon,  a 
native  ava£  dvSpwr,  and  with  all  his  homeliness  of  fea- 
ture and  deportment,  and  his  perfect  simplicity  of  ex- 
pression, there  was  about  him  "  that  divinity  that  doth 
hedge  a  king."  You  felt  a  power  in  him  and  going 
from  him,  drawing  you  to  him  in  spite  of  yourself. 
He  was  in  this  respect  a  solar  man  ;  he  drew  after  him 
his  own  firmament  of  planets.  They,  like  all  free 
agents,  had  their  centrifugal  forces  acting  ever  to- 
wards an  independent,  solitary  course,  but  the  centrip- 
etal also  was  there,  and  they  moved  with  and  around 
their  imperial  sun,  —  gracefully  or  not,  willingly  or 
not,  as  the  case  might  be,  but  there  was  no  breaking 
loose ;  they  again,  in  their  own  spheres  of  power, 
might  have  their  attendant  moons,  but  all  were  bound 
to  the  great  massive  luminary  in  the  midst. 


238  DR.   CHALMERS. 

There  is  to  us  a  continual  mystery  in  this  power  of 
one  man  over  another.  We  find  it  acting  everywhere, 
with  the  simplicity,  the  ceaselessness,  the  energy  of 
gravitation ;  and  we  may  be  permitted  to  speak  of 
this  influence  as  obeying  similar  conditions  ;  it  is  pro- 
portioned to  bulk,  —  for  we  hold  to  the  notion  of  a 
bigness  in  souls  as  well  as  bodies,  —  one  soul  differing 
from  another  in  quantity  and  momentum  as  well  as  in 
quality  and  force,  and  its  intensity  increases  by  near- 
ness. There  is  much  in  what  Jonathan  Edwards  says 
of  one  spiritual  essence  having  more  being  than  an- 
other, and  in  Dr.  Chalmers's  question,  "  Is  he  a  man 
of  ivecht  ?  " 

But  when  we  meet  a  solar  man  of  ample  nature  — 
soul,  body,  and  spirit ;  when  we  find  him  from  his 
earliest  years  moving  among  his  fellows  like  a  king, 
moving  them  whether  they  will  or  not  —  this  feeling 
of  mystery  is  deepened  ;  and  though  we  would  not, 
like  some  men  (who  should  know  better),  worship  the 
creature  and  convert  a  hero  into  a  god,  we  do  feel 
more  than  in  other  cases  the  truth,  that  it  is  the  in- 
spiration of  the  Almighty  which  has  given  to  that 
man  understanding,  and  that  all  power,  all  energy, 
Jill  light,  come  to  him  from  the  First  and  the  Last,  — 
the  Living  One.  God  comes  to  be  regarded  by  us, 
in  this  instance,  as  he  ought  always  to  be,  "  the  final 
centre  of  repose,"  —  the  source  of  all  being,  of  all  life, 
the  Terminus  ad  quern  and  the  Terminus  a  quo. 
And  assuredly,  as  in  the  firmament  that  simple  law 
of  gravitation  reigns  supreme  —  making  it  indeed  a 


DE.   CHALMERS  239 

kosmos,  majestic,  orderly,  comely  in  its  going ;  rul- 
ing and  binding  not  the  less  the  fiery  and  nomadic 
comets  than  the  gentle,  punctual  moons,  —  so  cer- 
tainly, and  to  us  moral  creatures  to  a  degree  tran- 
scendently  more  important,  does  the  whole  intelligent 
universe  move  around  and  move  towards  and  in  the 
Father  of  Lights. 

It  would  be  well  if  the  world  would,  among  the 
many  other  uses  they  make  of  its  great  men,  make 
more  of  this :  that  they  are  manifestors  of  God, 
revealers  of  His  will,  vessels  of  His  omnipotence, 
and  are  among  the  very  chief est  of  His  ways  and 
works. 

As  we  have  before  said,  there  is  a  perpetual  wonder 
in  this  power  of  one  man  over  his  fellows,  especially 
when  we  meet  with  it  in  a  great  man.  You  see  its 
operations  constantly  in  history,  and  through  it  the 
Great  Ruler  has  worked  out  many  of  His  greatest  and 
strangest  acts.  But  however  we  may  understand  the 
accessory  conditions  by  which  the  one  man  rules  the 
many,  and  controls,  and  fashions  them  to  his  purposes, 
and  transforms  them  into  his  likeness,  —  multiplying 
as  it  were  himself,  —  there  remains  at  the  bottom  of 
it  all  a  mystery,  a  reaction  between  body  and  soul 
that  we  cannot  explain.  Generally,  however,  we  find 
accompanying  its  manifestation  a  capacious  under- 
standing, a  strong  will,  an  emotional  nature  quick, 
powerful,  urgent,  undeniable,  in  perpetual  communica- 
tion with  the  energetic  will  and  the  large  resolute 
intellect,  and  a  strong,  hearty,  capable  body  ;  a  couu- 


240  DR.    CHALMERS. 

tenance  and  person  expressive   of  this  combination, 

—  the  mind  finding  its  way  at  once  and  in  full  force 
to  the  face,  to  the  gesture,  to  every  act  of  the  body. 
He  must  have  what  is  called  a  "presence  ;  "  not  that 
he  must  be  great  in  size,  beautiful,  or  strong ;  but  he 
must  be  expressive  and  impressive,  —  his  outward  man 
must  communicate  to  the  beholder  at  once  and  with- 
out fail  something  of  indwelling  power,  and  he  must 
be  and  act  as  one.     You  may  in  your  mind  analyze 
him  into  his  several  parts  ;  but  practically  he  acts  in 
everything  with  his  whole  soul  and  his  whole  self  ; 
whatsoever  his  hand  finds  to  do,  he  does  it  with  his 
might.     Luther,  Moses,  David,  Mahomet,  Cromwell, 

—  all  verified  these  conditions. 

And  so  did  Dr.  Chalmers.  There  was  something 
about  his  whole  air  and  manner  that  disposed  you  at 
the  very  first  to  make  way  where  he  went ;  he  held 
you  before  you  were  aware.  That  this  depended 
fully  as  much  upon  the  activity  and  the  quantity  — 
if  we  may  so  express  ourselves  —  of  his  affections, 
upon  that  combined  action  of  mind  and  body  which 
we  call  temperament,  and  upon  a  straightforward, 
urgent  will,  as  upon  what  is  called  the  pure  intellect, 
will  be  generally  allowed ;  but  with  all  this,  he  could 
not  have  been  and  done  what  he  was  and  did,  had 
he  not  had  an  understanding,  in  vigor  and  in  capac- 
ity, worthy  of  its  great  and  ardent  companions.  It 
was  large  and  free,  mobile  and  intense,  rather  than 
penetrative,  judicial,  clear,  or  fine ;  so  that  in  one 
sense  he  was  more  a  man  to  make  others  act  than 


DR.   CHALMERS.  241 

think  ;  but  his  own  actings  had  always  their  origin 
in  some  fixed,  central,  inevitable  proposition,  as  he 
would  call  it,  and  he  began  his  onset  with  stating 
plainly,  and  with  lucid  calmness,  what  he  held  to  be 
a  great  seminal  truth  ;  from  this  he  passed  at  once, 
not  into  exposition,  but  into  illustration  and  enforce- 
ment, —  into,  if  we  may  make  a  word,  overwhelming 
insistance.  Something  was  to  be  done  rather  than 
explained. 

There  was  no  separating  his  thoughts  and  expres- 
sions from  his  person,  and  looks,  and  voice.  How 
perfectly  we  can  at  this  moment  recall  him !  Thun- 
dering, flaming,  lightening,  in  the  pulpit ;  teaching, 
indoctrinating,  drawing  after  him  his  students,  in  his 
lecture  -  room  ;  sitting  among  other  public  men,  the 
most  unconscious,  the  most  king-like  of  them  all, 
with  that  broad  leonine  countenance,  that  beaming, 
liberal  smile ;  or  on  the  way  out  to  his  home,  in  his 
old-fashioned  great-coat,  with  his  throat  muffled  up, 
his  big  walking-stick  moved  outwards  in  an  arc,  its 
point  fixed,  its  head  circumferential,  a  sort  of  com- 
panion and  playmate,  with  which,  doubtless,  he  de- 
molished legions  of  imaginary  foes,  errors,  and  stu- 
pidities in  men  and  things,  in  Church  and  State. 
His  great  look,  large  chest,  large  head,  his  amplitude 
every  way ;  his  broad,  simple,  childlike,  inturned 
feet ;  his  short,  hurried,  impatient  step ;  his  erect, 
royal  air  ;  his  look  of  general  good-will ;  his  kindling 
up  into  a  warm  but  vague  benignity  when  one  he  did 
not  recognize  spoke  to  him  ;  the  addition,  for  it  was 


242  DR.   CHALMERS. 

not  a  change,  of  keen  specialty  to  his  hearty  recog- 
nition ;  the  twinkle  of  his  eyes  ;  the  immediately  say- 
ing something  very  personal  to  set  all  to  rights,  and 
then  the  sending  you  off  with  some  thought,  some 
feeling,  some  remembrance  making  your  heart  hurn 
within  you  ;  his  voice  indescribable  ;  his  eye  —  that 
most  peculiar  feature  —  not  vacant,  but  asleep,  —  in- 
nocent, mild,  and  large  ;  and  his  soul,  its  great  in- 
habitant, not  always  at  his  window  ;  but  then,  when 
lie  did  awake,  how  close  to  you  was  that  burning 
vehement  soul !  how  it  penetrated  and  overcame  you ! 
how  mild,  and  affectionate,  and  genial  its  expression 
at  his  own  fireside  ! 

Of  his  portraits  worth  mentioning,  there  are  Wat- 
son Gordon's,  Duncan's,  the  calotypes  of  Mr.  Hill, 
Kenneth  M'Leay's  miniatures,  the  daguerreotype, 
and  Steele's  bust.  These  are  all  good,  and  all  give 
bits  of  him,  some  nearly  the  whole,  but  not  one  of 
them  that  rl  6cp(j.6v,  that  fiery  particle,  that  in- 
spired look,  that  "  diviner  mind,"  the  poco  pih,  or 
little  more.  Watson  Gordon's  is  too  much  of  the 
mere  clergyman,  —  is  a  pleasant  likeness,  and  has  the 
shape  of  his  mouth,  and  the  setting  of  his  feet  very 
good.  Duncan's  is  a  work  of  genius,  and  is  the 
giant  looking  up,  awakening,  but  not  awakened,  — 
it  is  a  very  fine  picture.  Mr.  Hill's  calotypes  we  like 
better  than  all  the  rest,  because  ^vliat  in  them  is 
true,  is  absolutely  so,  and  they  have  some  delicate 
renderings  which  are  all  but  beyond  the  power  of 
any  human  artist ;  for  though  man's  art  is  mighty, 


DR.   CHALMERS.  243 

nature's  is  mightier.  The  one  of  the  Doctor  sitting 
with  his  grandson  "  Tommy "  is  to  us  the  best ; 
we  have  the  true  grandeur  of  his  form,  his  bulk. 
M'Leay's  is  admirable,  spirited,  and  has  that  look 
of  shrewdness  and  vivacity  and  immediateness  which 
he  had  when  he  was  observing  and  speaking  keenly ; 
it  •  is,  moreover,  a  fine,  manly  bit  of  art.  M'Leay 
is  the  Raeburn  of  miniature  painters ;  he  does  a 
great  deal  with  little.  The  daguerreotype  is,  in  its 
own  way,  excellent ;  it  gives  the  externality  of  the 
man  to  perfection,  but  it  is  Dr.  Chalmers  at  a  stand- 
still, —  his  mind  and  feelings  "  pulled  up "  for 
the  second  that  it  was  taken.  Steele's  is  a  noble 
bust,  —  has  a  stern  heroic  expression  and  pathetic 
beauty  about  it,  and  from  wanting  color  and  shadow 
and  the  eyes,  it  relies  upon  a  certain  simplicity  and 
grandeur  ;  in  this  it  completely  succeeds  ;  the  mouth 
is  handled  with  extraordinary  subtlety  and  sweetness, 
and  the  hair  hangs  over  that  huge  brow  like  a  glorious 
cloud.  We  think  this  head  of  Dr.  Chalmers  the 
artist's  greatest  bust. 

In  reference  to  the  assertion  we  have  made  as  to 
bulk  forming  one  primary  element  of  a  powerful 
mind,  Dr.  Chalmers  used  to  say,  when  a  man  of  ac- 
tivity and  public  mark  was  mentioned,  "  Has  he 
ivecht  ?  he  has  promptitude,  has  he  power  ?  he  has 
power,  has  he  promptitude  ?  and,  moreover,  has  he 
a  discerning  spirit  ?  " 

These  are  great  practical,  universal  truths.  How 
few  even  of  our  greatest  men  have  had  all  these 


244  DR.   CHALMERS. 

faculties  large,  fine,  sound,  and  in  "  perfect  diapa- 
son." Your  men  of  promptitude,  without  power  or 
judgment,  are  common  and  are  useful.  But  they  are 
npt  to  run  wild,  to  get  needlessly  brisk,  unpleasantly 
incessant.  A  weasel  is  good  or  bad,  as  the  case 
may  be,  —  good  against  vermin,  bad  to  meddle  with  ; 
but  inspired  weasels,  weasels  on  a  mission,  are  ter- 
rible indeed,  mischievous  and  fell,  and  swiftness  mak- 
ing up  for  want  of  momentum  by  inveteracy  ;  "  fierce 
as  wild  bulls,  untamable  as  flies."  Of  such  men  we 
have  nowadays  too  many.  Men  are  too  much  in  the 
way  of  supposing  that  doing  is  being  /  that  theology, 
and  excogitation,  and  fierce  dogmatic  assertion  of 
what  they  consider  truth,  is  godliness ;  that  obedience 
is  merely  an  occasional  great  act,  and  not  a  series  of 
acts,  issuing  from  a  state,  like  the  stream  of  water 
from  its  well. 

"  Action  is  transitory,  a  step,  a  blow, 

The  motion  of  a  muscle  this  way  or  that ; 

'T  is  done  ;  and  in  the  after  vacancy, 

We  wonder  at  ourselves  like  men  betrayed. 

Suffering  "  —  obedience,  or  being  as  opposed  to  doing  — 

"  Suffering  is  permanent, 

And  has  the  nature  of  infinity." 

Dr.  Chalmers  was  a  man  of  genius ;  he  had  his 
own  way  of  thinking,  and  saying,  and  doing,  and 
looking  everything.  Men  have  vexed  themselves  in 
vain  to  define  what  genius  is :  like  every  ultimate 
term  we  may  describe  it  by  giving  its  effects ;  we  can 
hardly  succee  1  in  reaching  its  essence.  Fortunately, 


DR.    CHALMERS.  245 

though  we  know  not  what  are  its  elements,  we  know 
it  when  we  meet  it ;  and  in  him,  in  every  movement 
of  his  mind,  in  every  gesture,  we  had  its  unmistakable 
tokens.  Two  of  the  ordinary  accompaniments  of 
genius  —  enthusiasm  and  simplicity  —  he  had  in  rare 
measure. 

He  was  an  enthusiast  in  the  true  and  good  sense  ; 
he  was  "  entheat,"  as  if  full  of  God,  as  the  old  poets 
called  it.  It  was  this  ardor,  this  superabounding  life, 
this  immediateness  of  thought  and  action,  idea  and 
emotion,  setting  the  whole  man  agoing  at  once, 
that  gave  a  power  and  a  charm  to  everything  he  did. 
To  adopt  the  old  division  of  the  Hebrew  Doctors,  as 
given  by  Nathanael  Culverwel,  in  his  "Light  of 
Nature :  "  In  man  we  have,  ls£,  wevfia  ^COOTTOIOW, 
the  sensitive  soul,  that  which  lies  nearest  the  body,  — 
the  very  blossom  and  flower  of  life ;  2d,  TOV  vovv,  an- 
imam  rationis,  sparkling  and  glittering  with  intellec- 
tuals, crowned  with  light ;  and  3</,  TOV  6v/*ov,  impetum 
animi,  motum  mentis,  the  vigor  and  energy  of  the 
soul,  its  temper,  the  mover  of  the  other  two  ;  the 
first  being,  as  they  said,  resident  in  hepate,  the  sec- 
ond in  cerebro,  the  third  in  corde,  where  it  pre- 
sides over  the  issues  of  life,  commands  the  circulation, 
and  animates  and  sets  the  blood  a-moving.  The  first 
and  second  are  informative,  explicative,  —  they  "  take 
in  and  do ; "  the  other  "  gives  out."  Now  in  Dr. 
Chalmers,  the  great  ingredient  was  the  6  $U/AOS  as  in- 
dicating vis  animce  et  vitce,  —  and  in  close  fellow- 
ship with  it,  and  ready  for  its  service,  was  a  large, 


246  DR.    CHALMERS. 

capacious  6  voDs,  and  an  energetic,  sensuous,  rapid  TO 
Trvevfj.0..  Hence  his  energy,  his  contagious  enthusi- 
asm ;  this  it  was  which  gave  the  peculiar  character  to 
his  religion,  to  his  politics,  to  his  personnel ;  every- 
thing he  did  was  done  heartily,  —  if  he  desired 
heavenly  blessings  he  "  panted  "  for  them,  "  his  soul 
broke  for  the  longing."  To  give  again  the  words 
of  the  spiritual  and  subtle  Culverwel,  "  Religion 
(and  indeed  everything  else)  was  no  matter  of  indif- 
ferency  to  him.  It  was  6(p/j.6v  n  7rpay/za,  a  certain 
fiery  thing,  as  Aristotle  calls  love ;  it  required  and  it 
got  the  very  flower  and  vigor  of  the  spirit  —  the 
strength  and  sinews  of  the  soul  —  the  prime  and  top 
of  the  affections  —  this  is  that  grace,  that  panting 
grace  —  we  know  the  name  of  it  and  that 's  all  —  't  is 
called  zeal  —  a  flaming  edge  of  the  affection  —  the 
ruddy  complexion  of  the  soul."  Closely  connected 
with  this  temperament,  and  with  a  certain  keen  sen- 
sation of  truth,  rather  than  a  perception  of  it,  if  we 
may  so  express  ourselves,  an  intense  consciousness  of 
objective  reality,  was  his  simple,  animating  faith. 
He  had  faith  in  God,  faith  in  human  nature,  faith, 
if  we  may  say  so,  in  his  own  instincts,  in  his  ideas 
of  men  and  things,  in  himself ;  and  the  result  was 
that  unhesitating  bearing  up  and  steering  right  on- 
ward, "  never  bating  one  jot  of  heart  or  hope,"  so 
characteristic  of  him.  He  had  "  the  substance  of  things 
hoped  for."  He  had  "  the  evidence  of  things  not  seen." 
By  his  simplicity  we  do  not  mean  the  simplicity  of 
the  head ;  of  that  he  had  none  ;  he  was  eminently 


DR.   CHALMERS.  247 

shrewd  and  knowing,  more  so  than  many  thought ; 
but  we  refer  to  that  quality  of  the  heart  and  of  the 
life,  expresvsed  by  the  words,  "  in  simplicity  a  child." 
In  his  own  words,  from  his  Daily  Readings,  — 

"When  a  child  is  filled  with  any  strong  emotion  by  a  sur- 
prising event  or  intelligence,  it  runs  to  discharge  it  on  others, 
impatient  of  their  sympathy ;  and  it  marks,  I  fancy,  the  sim- 
plicity and  greater  naturalness  of  this  period  (Jacob's),  that 
the  grown-up  men  and  women  ran  to  meet  each  other,  giving 
way  to  their  first  impulses  — even  as  children  do." 

His  emotions  were  as  lively  as  a  child's,  and  he 
ran  to  discharge  them.  There  was  in  all  his  ways 
a  certain  beautiful  unconsciousness  of  self,  an  out- 
going of  the  whole  nature,  that  we  see  in  children, 
who  are  by  learned  men  said  to  be  long  ignorant  of 
the  EGO  —  blessed  in  many  respects  in  their  ignorance  ! 
—  this  same  Ego,  as  it  now  exists,  being  perhaps  part 
of  "  the  fruit  of  that  forbidden  tree  ; "  that  mere 
knowledge  of  good  as  well  as  of  evil,  which  our  great 
mother  bought  for  us  at  such  a  price.  In  this  mean- 
ing of  the  word,  Dr.  Chalmers,  considering  the  size 
of  his  understanding,  his  personal  eminence,  his 
dealings  with  the  world,  his  large  sympathies,  his 
scientific  knowledge  of  mind  and  matter,  his  relish 
for  the  practical  details  and  for  the  spirit  of  public 
business,  was  quite  singular  for  his  simplicity ;  and 
taking  this  view  of  it,  there  was  much  that  was  plain 
and  natural  in  his  manner  of  thinking  and  acting, 
which  otherwise  was  obscure,  and  liable  to  be  mis- 
understood. We  cannot  better  explain  what  we  mean 


248  DR.   CHALMERS. 

than  by  giving  a  passage  from  Fe'nelon,  which 
D'Alembert,  in  his  Eloge,  quotes  as  characteristic  of 
that  "  sweet- souled  "  prelate.  We  give  the  passage 
entire,  as  it  seems  to  us  to  contain  a  very  beautiful 
and  by  no  means  commonplace  truth  :  — 

"Fe'nelon,"  says  D'Alembert,  "  a  caracte'rise*  lui-meme  en 
pen  de  mots  cette  simplicity  qui  se  rendoit  si  cher  :\  tous  les 
cceurs:  'La  simplicity  est  la  droiture  d'nne  ame  qui  s'interdit 
tout  retour  sur  elle  et  sur  ses  actions ;  cette  vertu  est  dif- 
feVente  de  la  since'rite',  et  la  snrpasse.  On  voit  beaucoup  de 
gens  qui  sont  sinceres  sans  etre  simples.  Us  ne  veulent  passer 
que  pour  ce  qu'ils  sont,  mais  ils  craignent  sans  cesse  de  passer 
pour  ce  qu'ils  ne  sont  pas.  L'homme  simple  n'affecte  ni 
la  vertu,  ni  la  ve'rite'  meme  ;  51  n'est  jamais  occup4  de  lui,  il 
senible  d'avoir  perdu  ce  jnoi  dout  on  est  si  jaloux.' " 

What  delicacy  and  justness  of  expression  !  how 
true  and  clear !  how  little  we  see  nowadays,  among 
grown-up  men,  of  this  straightness  of  the  soul  —  of 
this  losing  or  never  finding  "  ce  moi ! "  There  is 
more  than  is  perhaps  generally  thought  in  this.  Man 
in  a  state  of  perfection  would  no  sooner  think  of 
asking  himself,  Am  I  right?  am  I  appearing  to  be 
what  inwardly  I  am  ?  than  the  eye  asks  itself,  Do  I 
see  ?  or  a  child  says  to  itself,  Do  I  love  my  mother  ? 
We  have  lost  this  instinctive  sense ;  we  have  set  one 
portion  of  ourselves  aside  to  watch  the  rest ;  we  must 
keep  up  appearances  and  our  consistency ;  we  must 
respect  —  that  is,  look  back  upon  —  ourselves,  and  be 
respected,  if  possible  ;  we  must,  by  hook  or  by  crook, 
be  respectable. 

Dr.  Chalmers  would  have  made  a  sorry  Balaam ; 


DR.   CHALMERS.  249 

he  was  made  of  different  stuff,  and  for  other  pur- 
poses. Your  "respectable"  men  are  ever  doing  their 
best  to  keep  their  status,  to  maintain  their  position. 
He  never  troubled  himself  about  his  status ;  indeed, 
we  would  say  status  was  not  the  word  for  him.  He 
had  a  sedes  on  which  he  sat,  and  from  which  he  spoke  ; 
he  had  an  imperi/um,  to  and  fro  which  he  roamed  as 
he  listed ;  but  a  status  was  as  little  in  his  way  as  in 
that  of  a  Mauritanian  lion.  Your  merely  "  sincere  " 
men  are  always  thinking  of  what  they  said  yesterday, 
and  what  they  may  say  to-morrow,  at  the  very  moment 
when  they  should  be  putting  their  whole  self  into 
to-day.  Full  of  his  idea,  possessed  by  it,  moved 
altogether  by  its  power,  —  believing,  he  spoke,  and 
without  stint  or  fear,  often  apparently  contradicting 
his  former  self,  —  careless  about  everything,  but 
speaking  fully  his  mind.  One  other  reason  for  his 
apparent  inconsistencies  was,  if  one  may  so  express 
it,  the  spaciousness  of  his  nature.  He  had  room  in 
that  capacious  head,  and  affection  in  that  great,  hos- 
pitable heart,  for  relishing  and  taking  in  the  whole 
range  of  human  thought  and  feeling.  He  was  several 
men  in  one.  Multitudinous  but  not  multiplex,  in  him 
odd  and  apparently  incongruous  notions  dwelt  peace- 
ably together.  The  lion  lay  down  with  the  lamb. 
Voluntaryism  and  an  endowment,  —  both  were  best. 

He  was  childlilie  in  his  simplicity ;  though  in  un- 
derstanding a  man,  he  was  himself  in  many  things  a 
child.  Coleridge  says,  every  man  should  include  all 
his  former  selves  in  his  present,  as  a  tree  has  its 


250  DR.    CHALMERS. 

former  years'  growths  inside  its  last ;  so  Dr.  Chalm- 
ers bore  along  with  him  his  childhood,  his  youth, 
his  early  and  full  manhood  into  his  mature  old  age. 
This  gave  himself,  we  doubt  not,  infinite  delight, 
multiplied  his  joys,  strengthened  and  sweetened  his 
whole  nature,  and  kept  his  heart  young  and  tender ; 
it  enabled  him  to  sympathize,  to  have  a  fellow-feeling 
with  all,  of  whatever  age.  Those  who  best  knew 
him,  who  were  most  habitually  with  him,  know  how 
beautifully  this  point  of  his  character  shone  out  in 
daily,  hourly  life.  We  well  remember  long  ago  lov- 
ing him  before  we  had  seen  him,  from  our  having 
been  told  that  being  out  one  Saturday  at  a  friend's 
house  near  the  Pentlands,  he  collected  all  the  chil- 
dren and  small  people,  —  the  other  bairns,  as  he 
called  them,  —  and  with  no  one  else  of  his  own 
growth,  took  the  lead  to  the  nearest  hill-top,  —  how 
he  made  each  take  the  biggest  and  roundest  stone  he 
could  find  and  carry,  —  how  he  panted  up  the  hill 
himself  with  one  of  enormous  size,  —  how  he  kept  up 
their  hearts,  and  made  them  shout  with  glee,  with  the 
light  of  his  countenance,  and  with  all  his  pleasant 
and  strange  ways  and  words,  —  how,  having  got  the 
breathless  little  men  and  women  to  the  top  of  the 
hill,  he,  hot  and  scant  of  breath,  looked  round  on 
the  world  and  upon  them  with  his  broad  benig- 
nant smile  like  the  <ivqpi.6 "p.ov  Kvp.drwv  yeXaa^a  —  the 
unnumbered  laughter  of  the  sea,  —  how  he  set  off 
his  own  huge  "  fellow,"  —  how  he  watched  him  set- 
ting out  on  his  race,  slowly,  stupidly,  vaguely  at  first, 


DR.   CHALMERS.  251 

almost  as  if  he  might  die  before  he  began  to  live, 
then  suddenly  giving  a  spring  and  off  like  a  shot, 
—  bounding,  tearing,  avrts  eTretra  TreSovSe  KvXti'&cro 
Aaa.9  avails,  vires  acquirens  eundo  ;  how  the  great 
and  good  man  was  totus  in  illo ;  how  he  spoke  to 
him,  upbraided  him,  cheered  him,  gloried  in  him,  all 
but  prayed  for  him  ;  how  he  joked  philosophy  to  his 
wondering  and  ecstatic  crew,  when  he  (the  stone) 
disappeared  among  some  brackens.  —  telling  them 
they  had  the  evidence  of  their  senses  that  he  was  in, 
they  might  even  know  he  was  there  by  his  effects,  by 
the  moving  brackens,  himself  unseen ;  how  plain  it 
became  that  he  had  gone  in,  when  he  actually  came 
out !  —  how  he  ran  up  the  opposite  side  a  bit,  and 
then  fell  back,  and  lazily  expired  at  the  bottom,  — 
how  to  their  astonishment,  but  not  displeasure,  —  for 
he  "set  them  off  so  well,"  and  "was  so  funny,"  - 
he  took  from  each  his  cherished  stone,  and  set  it  off 
himself !  showing  them  how  they  all  ran  alike,  yet 
differently ;  how  he  went  on,  "  making,"  as  he  said, 
"  an  induction  of  particulars,"  till  he  came  to  the 
Benjamin  of  the  flock,  a  wee  wee  man,  who  had 
brought  up  a  stone  bigger  than  his  own  big  head  ;  then 
how  he  let  him,  unicus  omnium,  set  off  his  own,  and 
how  wonderfully  IT  ran  !  what  miraculous  leaps ! 
what  escapes  from  impossible  places  !  and  how  it  ran 
up  the  other  side  farther  than  any,  and  by  some 
felicity  remained  there. 

He  was  an  orator  in  its  specific  and  highest  sense. 


252  DR.    CHALMERS. 

We  need  not  prove  this  to  those  who  have  heard  him  ; 
we  cannot  to  those  who  have  not.  It  was  a  living 
man  sending  living,  burning  words  into  the  minds 
and  hearts  of  men  before  him,  radiating  his  intense 
fervor  upon  them  all ;  but  there  was  no  reproducing 
the  entire  effect  when  alone  and  cool ;  some  one  of 
the  elements  was  gone.  We  say  nothing  of  this  part 
of  his  character,  because  upon  this  all  are  agreed. 
His  eloquence  rose  like  a  tide,  a  sea,  setting  in,  bear- 
ing down  upon  you,  lifting  up  all  its  waves  —  "  deep 
calling  unto  deep ;  "  there  was  no  doing  anything 
but  giving  yourself  up  for  the  time  to  its  will.  Do 
our  readers  remember  Horace's  description  of  Pin- 
dar ? 

"  Monte  decurrens  velut  amnis,  imbres 
Quern  super  notas  aluere  ripas, 
Fervet,  immensusque  ruit  profundo 
Piudarus  ore  : 

'  per  audaces  nova  ditliyrambos 

Verba  devolvit,  numerisque  f ertur 
Lege  solutis.'  " 

This  is  to  our  mind  singularly  characteristic  of  our 
perfervid  Scotsman.  If  we  may  indulge  our  conceit 
we  would  paraphrase  it  thus.  His  eloquence  was 
like  a  flooded  Scottish  river,  —  it  had  its  origin  in 
some  exalted  region,  in  some  mountain-truth,  some 
high,  immutable  reality ;  it  did  not  rise  in  a  plain, 
and  quietly  drain  its  waters  to  the  sea ;  it  came 
sheer  down  from  above.  He  laid  hold  of  some  sim- 
ple truth,  —  the  love  of  God,  the  Divine  method  of 


DR.   CHALMERS.  253 

justification,  the  unchangeableness  of  human  nature, 
the  supremacy  of  conscience,  the  honorableness  of  all 
men  ;  and  having  got  this  vividly  before  his  mind,  on 
he  moved ;  the  river  rose  at  once,  drawing  every- 
thing into  its  course  — 

' '  All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  desires,  — 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame," 

things  outward  and  things  inward,  interests  immedi- 
ate and  remote,  God  and  eternity,  men,  miserable  and 
immortal,  this  world  and  the  next,  clear  light  and 
unsearchable  mystery,  the  word  and  the  works  of 
God,  everything  contributed  to  swell  the  volume  and 
add  to  the  onward  and  widening  flood.  His  river 
did  not  flow  like  Denham's  Thames,  — 

"  Though  deep  yet  clear,  though  gentle  yet  not  dull ; 
Strong  without  rage,  without  o'erflowing  full." 

There  was  strength,  but  there  was  likewise  rage  ;  a 
fine  frenzy  —  not  unoften  due  mainly  to  its  rapidity 
and  to  its  being  raised  suddenly  by  his  affections  ; 
there  was  son)e  confusion  in  the  stream  of  his 
thoughts,  some  overflowing  of  the  banks,  some  turbu- 
lence, and  a  certain  noble  immensity ;  but  its  origin 
was  clear  and  calm,  above  the  region  of  clouds  and 
storms.  If  you  saw  it ;  if  you  took  up  and  admitted 
his  proposition,  his  starting  idea,  then  all  else  moved 
on  ;  but  once  set  a-going,  once  on  his  way,  there  was 
no  pausing  to  inquire,  why  or  how,  — fervet  —  ruit 
—  fertur,  he  boils  —  he  rushes  —  he  is  borne  along ; 
and  so  are  all  who  hear  him. 


254  DR.   CHALMERS. 

To  go  on  with  our  figure :  There  was  no  possibil- 
ity of  sailing  up  his  stream.  You  must  go  with  him, 
or  you  must  go  ashore.  This  was  a  great  peculiarity 
with  him,  and  puzzled  many  people.  You  could 
argue  with  him,  and  get  him  to  entertain  your  ideas 
on  any  purely  abstract  or  simple  proposition,  —  at 
least  for  a  time  ;  but  once  let  him  get  down  among 
practicals,  among  applications  of  principles,  into  the 
regions  of  the  affections  and  active  powers,  and  such 
was  the  fervor  and  impetuosity  of  his  nature,  that  he 
could  not  stay  leisurely  to  discuss,  he  could  not  then 
entertain  the  opposite ;  it  was  hurried  off,  and  made 
light  of,  and  disregarded,  like  a  floating  thing  before 
a  cataract. 

To  play  a  little  more  with  our  conceit :  The  great- 
est man  is  he  who  is  both  born  and  made,  who  is  at 
once  poetical  and  scientific,  who  has  genius  and  tal- 
ent, each  supporting  the  other.  So  with  rivers. 
Your  mighty  world's  river  rises  in  high  and  lonely 
places,  among  the  everlasting  hills  ;  amidst  clouds,  or 
inaccessible  clearness.  On  be  move*,  gathering  to 
himself  all  waters ;  refreshing,  cheering  all  lands. 
Here  a  cataract,  there  a  rapid  ;  now  lingering  in  some 
corner  of  beauty,  as  if  loath  to  go.  Now  shallow  and 
wide,  rippling  and  laughing  in  his  glee ;  now  deep, 
silent,  and  slow ;  now  narrow  and  rapid  and  deep, 
and  not  to  be  meddled  with.  Now  in  the  open 
country  ;  not  so  clear,  for  other  waters  have  come  in 
upon  him,  and  he  is  becoming  useful,  no  longer  turbu- 
lent, —  traveling  more  contentedly  ;  now  he  is  navi- 


DR.   CHALMERS.  255 

gable,  craft  of  all  kinds  coming  and  going  upon  his 
surface  forever ;  and  then,  as  if  by  some  gentle  and 
great  necessity,  "  deep  and  smooth,  passing  with  a  still 
foot  and  a  sober  face,"  he  pays  his  last  tribute  to  "  the 
Fisciis.  the  great  Exchequer,  the  sea,"  —  running  out 
fresh,  by  reason  of  his  power  and  volume,  into  the 
main  for  many  a  league. 

Your  mere  genius,  who  has  instincts,  and  is  poetical 
and  not  scientific,  who  grows  from  within  —  he  is  like 
our  mountain  river,  clear,  willful,  odd  ;  running  round 
corners  ;  disappearing  it  may  be  under  ground,  com- 
ing up  again  quite  unexpectedly  and  strong,  as  if  fed 
from  some  unseen  spring,  deep  down  in  darkness ; 
rising  in  flood  without  warning,  and  coming  down  like 
a  lion  ;  often  all  but  dry ;  never  to  be  trusted  to  for 
driving  mills  ;  must  at  least  be  tamed  and  led  off  to 
the  mill ;  and  going  down  full  pace,  and  without  stop 
or  stay,  into  the  sea. 

Your  man  of  talent,  of  acquirements,  of  science,  — 
who  is  made,  who  is  not  so  much  educed  as  edified; 
who,  instead  of  acquiring  his  vires  eundo,  gets  his 
vires  eundi,  from  acquirement,  and  grows  from  with- 
out ;  who  serves  his  brethren  and  is  useful  ;  he  rises 
often  no  one  knows  where  or  cares ;  has  perhaps  no 
proper  fountain  at  all,  but  is  the  result  of  the  gathered 
rain-water  in  the  higher  flats  ;  he  is  never  quite  clear, 
never  brisk,  never  dangerous ;  always  from  the  first 
useful,  and  goes  pleasantly  in  harness ;  turns  mills  ; 
washes  rags,  makes  them  into  paper ;  carries  down 
all  manner  of  dye-stuffs  and  feculence ;  and  turns  a 


256  DR.    CHALMERS. 

bread-mill  to  as  good  purpose  as  any  clearer  stream ; 
is  docile,  and  has,  as  he  reaches  the  sea,  in  his  deal- 
ings with  the  world,  a  river  trust,  who  look  after  his 
and  their  own  interests,  and  dredge  him,  and  deepen 
him,  and  manage  him,  and  turn  him  off  into  docks, 
and  he  is  in  the  sea  before  he  or  you  know  it. 

Though  we  do  not  reckon  the  imagination  of  Dr. 
Chalmers  among  his  master  faculties,  it  was  powerful, 
effective,  magnificent.  It  did  not  move  him,  he  took 
it  up  as  he  went  along ;  its  was  not  that  imperial, 
penetrating,  transmuting  function  that  we  find  it  in 
Dante,  in  Jeremy  Taylor,  in  Milton,  or  in  Burke ;  he 
used  it  to  emblazon  his  great  central  truths,  to  hang 
clouds  of  glory  on  the  skirts  of  his  illustration  ;  but  it 
was  too  passionate,  too  material,  too  encumbered  with 
images,  too  involved  in  the  general  melee  of  the  soul, 
to  do  its  work  as  a  master.  It  was  not  in  him,  as 
Thomas  Fuller  calls  it,  "  that  inward  sense  of  the 
soul,  its  most  boundless  and  restless  faculty ;  for 
while  the  understanding  and  the  will  are  kept  as  it 
were  in  liberd  custodid  to  their  objects  of  ventm  et 
bonum,  it  is  free  from  all  engagements,  —  digs  with- 
out spade,  flies  without  wings,  builds  without  charges, 
in  a  moment  striding  from  the  centre  to  the  circum- 
ference of  the  world  by  a  kind  of  omnipotency, 
creating  and  annihilating  things  in  an  instant,  — rest- 
less, ever  working,  never  wearied."  We  may  say, 
indeed,  that  men  of  his  temperament  are  not  gener- 
ally endowed  with  this  power  in  largest  measure ;  in 


DR.   CHALMERS.  257 

one  sense  they  can  do  without  it,  in  another  they 
want  the  conditions  on  which  its  highest  exercise  de- 
pends. Plato  and  Milton,  Shakespeare  and  Dante, 
and  Wordsworth,  had  imaginations  tranquil,  sedate, 
cool,  originative,  penetrative,  intense,  which  dwelt  in 
the  "  highest  heaven  of  invention."  Hence  it  was 
that  Chalmers  could  personify  or  paint  a  passion  ;  he 
could  give  it  in  one  of  its  actions ;  he  could  not,  or 
rather  he  never  did,  impassionate,  create,  and  vivify  a 
person,  —  a  very  different  thing  from  personifying  a 
passion,  —  all  the  difference,  as  Henry  Taylor  says, 
between  Byron  and  Shakespeare. 

In  his  impetuosity,  we  find  the  rationale  of  much 
that  is  peculiar  in  the  style  of  Dr.  Chalmers.  As  a 
spoken  style  it  was  thoroughly  effective.1  He  seized 

1  We  have  not  noticed  his  itsrativeness,  his  reiterativeness, 
because  it  flowed  naturally  from  his  primary  qualities.  In 
speaking  it  was  effective,  and  to  us  pleasing1,  because  there 
was  some  new  modulation,  some  addition  in  the  manner,  just 
as  the  sea  never  sets  up  one  wave  exactly  like  the  last  or  the 
next.  But  in  his  books  it  did  somewhat  encumber  his 
thoughts,  and  the  reader's  progress  and  profit.  It  did  not 
arise,  as  in  many  lesser  men,  from  his  having  said  his  say  — 
from  his  having  no  more  in  him  ;  much  less  did  it  arise  from 
conceit,  either  of  his  idea  or  of  his  way  of  stating  it ;  but  from 
the  intensity  with  which  the  sensation  of  the  idea  —  if  we 
may  use  the  expression  —  made  its  first  mark  on  his  mind. 
Truth  to  him  never  seemed  to  loss  its  first  freshness,  its  edge, 
its  flavor ;  and  Divine  truth,  we  know,  had  come  to  him  so 
suddenly,  so  fully,  at  mid-day,  when  he  was  in  the  very  prime 
of  his  knowledge  and  his  power  and  quickness,  —  had  so  pos- 
sessed his  entire  nature,  as  if,  like  him  who  was  journeying  to 


258  DR.   CHALMERS. 

the  nearest  weapons  and  smote  down  whatever  he  hit. 
But  from  this  very  vehemence,  this  haste,  there  was 
in  his  general  style  a  want  of  correctness,  of  select- 
ness,  of  nicety,  of  that  curious  felicity  which  makes 
thought  immortal,  and  enshrines  it  in  imperishable 
crystal.  In  the  language  of  the  affections  he  was 
singularly  happy  ;  but  in  a  formal  statement,  rapid 
argumentation  and  analysis,  he  was  often  as  we 
might  think,  uncouth,  and  imperfect,  and  incorrect ; 
chiefly  owing  to  his  temperament,  to  his  fiery,  impa- 
tient, swelling  spirit,  this  gave  his  orations  their  fine 

Damascus,  a  Great  Light  had  shone  round  about  him,  —  that 
whenever  he  reproduced  that  condition,  he  began  afresh,  and 
with  his  whole  utterance,  to  proclaim  it.  He  could  not  but 
speak  the  things  he  had  seen  and  felt,  and  heard  and  be- 
lieved ;  and  he  did  it  much  in  the  same  way,  and  in  the  same 
words,  for  the  thoughts  and  affections  and  posture  of  his  soul 
were  the  same.  Like  all  men  of  vivid  perception  and  keen 
sensibility,  his  mind  and  his  body  continued  under  impressions, 
both  material  and  spiritual,  after  the  objects  were  gone.  A 
curious  instance  of  this  occurs  to  us.  Some  years  ago,  he 
roamed  up  and  down  through  the  woods  near  Auchindinny, 
with  two  boys  as  companions.  It  was  the  first  burst  of  sum- 
mer, and  the  trees  were  more  than  usually  enriched  with 
leaves.  He  wandered  about  delighted,  silent,  looking  at  the 
leaves,  "thick  and  numberless."  As  the  three  went  on,  they 
came  suddenly  upon  a  high  brick  wall,  newly  built,  for  peach- 
trees,  not  3ret  planted.  Dr.  Chalmers  halted,  and  looking 
steadfastly  at  the  wall,  exclaimed  most  earnestly,  "  What  fo- 
liage !  what  foliage!  "  The  boys  looked  at  one  another,  and 
said  nothing ;  but  on  getting  home  expressed  their  astonish- 
ment at  this  very  puzzling  phenomenon.  What  a  difference ! 
leaves  and  parallelograms  ;  a  forest  and  a  brick  wall ! 


DR.   CHALMERS.  259 

audacity,  —  this  brought  out  hot  from  the  furnace  his 
new  words,  —  this  made  his  numbers  run  wild  —  lege 
solutis.  We  are  sure  this  view  will  be  found  con- 
firmed by  these  "  Daily  Readings,"  when  he  wrote 
little,  and  had  not  time  to  get  heated,  and  when  the 
nature  of  the  work,  the  hour  at  which  it  was  done, 
and  his  solitariness,  made  his  thoughts  flow  at  their 
'•  own  sweet  will ;  "  they  are  often  quite  as  classical 
in  expression  as  they  are  deep  and  lucid  in  thought, 
—  reflecting  heaven  with  its  clouds  and  stars,  and 
letting  us  see  deep  down  into  its  own  secret  depths : 
this  is  to  us  one  great  charm  of  these  volumes.  Here 
he  is  broad  and  calm ;  in  his  great  public  perform- 
ances by  mouth  and  pen,  he  soon  passed  from  the 
lucid  into  the  luminous. 

What,  for  instance,  can  be  finer  in  expression  than 
this  ?  "  It  is  well  to  be  conversant  with  great  ele- 
ments —  life  and  death,  reason  and  madness."  "  God 
forgets  not  his  own  purposes,  though  he  executes 
them  in  his  own  way,  and  maintains  his  own  pace, 
which  he  hastens  not  and  shortens  not  to  meet  our 
impatience."  "I  find  it  easier  to  apprehend  the 
greatness  of  the  Deity  than  any  of  his  moral  per- 
fections, or  his  sacredness  ;  "  and  this  :  — 

"  One  cannot  but  feel  an  interest  in  Ishmael,  figuring-  him 
to  be  a  noble  of  nature,  —  one  of  those  heroes  of  the  wilder- 
ness who  lived  on  the  produce  of  his  bow,  and  whose  spirit 
was  nursed  and  exercised  among  the  wild  adventures  of  the 
life  he  led.  And  it  does  soften  our  conception  of  him  whose 
hand  was  against  every  man,  and  every  man's  hand  against 
him,  when  we  read  of  his  mother's  influence  over  him,  in  the 


260  DR.   CHALMERS. 

deference  of  Ishmael  to  whom  we  read  another  example  of 
the  respect  yielded  to  females  even  in  that  so-called  barbarous 
period  of  the  world.  There  was  a  civilization,  the  immediate 
effect  of  religion,  in  these  days,  from  which  men  fell  away  as 
the  world  grew  older." 

That  he  had  a  keen  relish  for  material  and  moral 
beauty  and  grandeur  we  all  know ;  what  follows 
shows  that  he  had  also  the  true  ear  for  beautiful 
words,  as  at  once  pleasant  to  the  ear  and  suggestive 
of  some  higher  feelings:  —  "I  have  often  felt,  in 
reading  Milton  and  Thomson,  a  strong  poetical  effect 
in  the  bare  enumeration  of  different  countries,  and 
this  strongly  enhanced  by  the  statement  of  some 
common  and  prevailing  emotion  which  passed  from 
one  to  another."  This  is  set  forth  with  great  beauty 
and  power  in  verses  14th  and  15th  of  Exodus  xv.,  — 
"  The  people  shall  hear  and  be  afraid  :  sorrow  shall 
take  hold  on  the  inhabitants  of  Philistia.  Then  the 
dukes  of  Edom  shall  be  amazed  ;  the  mighty  men 
of  Moab,  trembling  shall  take  hold  of  them :  the  in- 
habitants of  Canaan  shall  melt  away."  Any  one 
who  has  a  tolerable  ear  and  any  sensibility,  must  re- 
member the  sensation  of  delight  in  the  mere  sound,  — 
like  the  colors  of  a  butterfly's  wing,  or  the  shapeless 
glories  of  evening  clouds,  to  the  eye,  —  in  reading 
aloud  such  passages  as  these  :  "  Heshbon  shall  cry 
and  Elealeh  ;  their  voice  shall  be  heard  to  Jahaz  :  .  .  . 
for  by  the  way  of  Luhith  with  weeping  shall  they  go 
up  ;  for  in  the  way  of  Horonaim  they  shall  raise  a 
cry."  "  God  came  from  Teman,  the  Holy  One  from 


DR.    CHALMERS.  261 

Mount  Paran."  "  Is  not  Calno  as  Carchemish  ?  is  not 
Hamath  as  Arpacl  ?  is  not  Samaria  as  Damascus  ?  .  .  . 
He  is  gone  to  Aiath,  he  is  passed  through  Migron  ;  at 
Michmash  he  hath  laid  up  his  carriages :  .  .  .  Ramath 
is  afraid ;  Gibeah  of  Saul  is  fled.  Lift  up  thy  voice, 
O  daughter  of  Gallim !  cause  it  to  be  heard  unto 
Laish,  O  poor  Anathoth.  Madmenah  is  removed  ;  the 
inhabitants  of  Gebim  gather  themselves  to  flee.  .  .  . 
The  fields  of  Heshbon  languish,  the  vine  of  Sib- 
mah.  ...  I  will  water  thee  with  my  tears,  O  Heshbon 
and  Elealeh."  Any  one  may  prove  to  himself  that 
much  of  the  effect  and  beauty  of  these  passages  de- 
pends on  these  names ;  put  others  in  their  room  and 
try  them. 

We  remember  well  our  first  hearing  Dr.  Chalmers. 
We  were  in  a  moorland  district  in  Tweeddale,  rejoi- 
cing in  the  country,  after  nine  months  of  the  High 
School.  We  heard  that  the  famous  preacher  was  to 
be  at  a  neighboring  parish  church,  and  off  we  set,  a 
cartful  of  irrepressible  youngsters.  "  Calm  was  all 
nature  as  a  resting  wheel."  The  crows,  instead  of 
making  wing,  were  impudent  and  sat  still ;  the  cart- 
horses were  standing,  knowing  the  day,  at  the  field- 
gates,  gossiping  and  gazing,  idle  and  happy  ;  the 
moor  was  stretching  away  in  the  pale  sunlight  — 
vast,  dim,  melancholy,  like  a  sea ;  everywhere  were 
to  be  seen  the  gathering  people,  "  sprinklings  of 
blithe  company  ;  "  the  country-side  seemed  moving  to 
one  centre.  As  we  entered  the  kirk  we  saw  a  noto- 
rious character,  a  drover  who  had  much  of  the  brutal 


262  DR.   CHALMERS. 

look  of  what  he  worked  in,  with  the  knowing  eye  of 
a  man  of  the  city,  a  sort  of  big  Peter  Bell,  — 

"  He  had  a  hardness  in  his  eye, 
He  had  a  hardness  in  his  cheek." 

He  was  our  terror,  and  we  not  only  wondered,  but 
were  afraid  when  we  saw  him  going  in.  The  kirk 
was  full  as  it  could  hold.  How  different  in  looks  to 
a  brisk  town  congregation !  There  was  a  fine  lei- 
sureliness  and  vague  stare ;  all  the  dignity  and  va- 
cancy of  animals ;  eyebrows  raised  and  mouths  open, 
as  is  the  habit  with  those  who  speak  little  and  look 
much,  and  at  far-off  objects.  The  minister  comes  in, 
homely  in  his  dress  and  gait,  but  having  a  great  look 
about  him,  like  a  mountain  among  hills.  The  High 
School  boys  thought  him  like  a  "  big  one  of  our- 
selves ; "  he  looks  vaguely  round  upon  his  audience,  as 
if  he  saw  in  it  one  great  object,  not  many.  We  shall 
never  forget  his  smile,  its  general  benignity,  —  how 
he  let  the  light  of  his  countenance  fall  on  us !  He 
read  a  few  verses  quietly ;  then  prayed  briefly,  sol- 
emnly, with  his  eyes  wide  open  all  the  time,  but  not 
seeing.  Then  he  gave  out  his  text ;  we  forget  it,  but 
its  subject  was  "  Death  reigns."  He  stated  slowly, 
calmly,  the  simple  meaning  of  the  words ;  what  death 
was,  and  how  and  why  it  reigned  ;  then  suddenly  he 
stalled  and  looked  like  a  man  who  had  seen  some 
great  sight,  and  was  breathless  to  declare  it ;  he  told 
us  how  death  reigned,  —  everywhere,  at  all  times,  in 
all  places ;  how  we  all  know  it,  how  we  would  yet 
know  more  of  it.  The  drover,  who  had  sat  down  in 


DR.    CHALMERS.  26o 

the  table-seat  opposite,  was  gazing  up  in  a  state  of 
stupid  excitement ;  he  seemed  restless,  but  never  kept 
his  eye  from  the  speaker.  The  tide  set  in ;  every- 
thing added  to  its  power,  deep  called  to  deep,  imagery 
and  illustration  poured  in ;  and  every  now  and  then 
the  theme,  the  simple,  terrible  statement,  was  re- 
peated in  some  lucid  interval.  After  overwhelming 
us  with  proofs  of  the  reign  of  Death,  and  transfer- 
ring to  us  his  intense  urgency  and  emotion  ;  and  after 
shrieking,  as  if  in  despair,  these  words,  "  Death  is  a 
tremendous  necessity,"  —  he  suddenly  looked  beyond 
us  as  if  into  some  distant  region,  and  cried  out,  "  Be- 
hold a  mightier  !  —  who  is  this  ?  He  cometh  from 
Edorn,  with  dyed  garments  from  Bozrah,  glorious  in 
his  apparel,  speaking  in  righteousness,  traveling  in 
the  greatness  of  his  strength,  mighty  to  save."  Then, 
in  a  few  plain  sentences,  he  stated  the  truth  as  to  sin 
entering,  and  death  by  sin,  and  death  passing  upon 
all.  Then  he  took  fire  once  more,  and  enforced,  with 
redoubled  energy  and  richness,  the  freeness,  the  sim- 
plicity, the  security,  the  sufficiency  of  the  great 
method  of  justification.  How  astonished  and  im- 
pressed we  all  were  !  He  was  at  the  full  thunder  of 
his  power  ;  the  whole  man  was  in  an  agony  of  ear- 
nestness. The  drover  was  weeping  like  a  child,  the 
tears  running  down  his  ruddy,  coarse  cheeks,  his 
face  opened  out  and  smoothed  like  an  infant's ;  his 
whole  body  stirred  with  emotion.  We  all  had  insen- 
sibly been  drawn  out  of  our  seats,  and  were  conver- 
ging towards  the  wonderful  speaker.  And  when  he 


2G4  DR.    CHALMERS. 

sat  down,  after  warning  each  one  of  us  to  remember 
who  it  was,  and  what  it  was,  that  followed  death  on 
his  pale  horse,1  and  how  alone  we  could  escape  —  we 
all  sunk  back  into  our  seats.  How  beautiful  to  our 
eyes  did  the  thunderer  look,  —  exhausted,  but  sweet 
and  pure !  How  he  poured  out  his  soul  before  his 
God  in  giving  thanks  for  sending  the  Abolisher  of 
Death  !  Then,  a  short  psalm,  and  all  was  ended. 

We  went  home  quieter  than  we  came  ;  we  did  not 
re-count  the  foals  with  their  long  legs  and  roguish 
eyes,  and  their  sedate  mothers ;  we  did  not  speculate 
upon  whose  dog  that  was,  and  whether  that  was  a 
crow  or  a  man  in  the  dim  moor, — we  thought  of 
other  things.  That  voice,  that  face ;  those  great, 
simple,  living  thoughts,  those  floods  of  resistless  elo- 
quence ;  that  piercing,  shattering  voice,  —  '•  that 
tremendous  necessity." 

Were  we  desirous  of  giving  to  one  who  had  never 
seen  or  heard  Dr.  Chalmers  an  idea  of  what  manner 
of  man  he  was,  —  what  he  was  as  a  whole,  in  the  full 
round  of  his  notions,  tastes,  affections,  and  powers,  — 
we  would  put  this  book  into  their  hands,  and  ask  them 
to  read  it  slowly,  bit  by  bit,  as  he  wrote  it.  In  it  he 
puts  down  simply,  and  at  once,  what  passes  through 
his  mind  as  he  reads ;  there  is  no  making  of  himself 
feel  and  think  —  no  getting  into  a  frame  of  mind  ;  he 

1  "  And  I  looked,  and  behold,  a  pale  horse  ;  and  his  name 
that  sat  on  him  was  Death,  and  Hell  followed  with  him."  — 
Rev.  vi.  8. 


DR.    CHALMERS.  265 

was  not  given  to  frames  of  mind ;  he  preferred  states- 
to  forms,  substances  to  circumstances.  There  is  some- 
thing of  everything  in  it,  his  relish  for  abstract 
thought  —  his  love  of  taking  soundings  in  deep  places 
and  finding  no  bottom  —  his  knack  of  starting  subtle 
questions,  which  he  did  not  care  to  run  to  earth  — 
his  penetrating,  regulating  godliness  —  his  delight  in 
nature  —  his  turn  for  politics,  general,  economical, 
and  ecclesiastical  —  his  picturesque  eye  —  his  human- 
ity —  his  courtesy  —  his  warm-heartedness  —  his  im- 
petuosity —  his  sympathy  with  all  the  wants,  pleasures, 
and  sorrows  of  his  kind  —  his  delight  in  the  law  of 
God,  and  his  simple,  devout,  manly  treatment  of  it  — 
his  acknowledgment  of  difficulties  —  his  turn  for  the 
sciences  of  quantity  and  number,  and  indeed  for  nat- 
ural science  and  art  generally  —  his  shrewdness  —  his 
worldly  wisdom  —  his  genius,  —  all  these  come  out ; 
you  gather  them  like  fruit,  here  a  little,  and  there 
a  little.  He  goes  over  the  Bible,  not  as  a  philosopher, 
or  a  theologian,  or  a  historian,  or  a  geologist,  or  a 
jurist,  or  a  naturalist,  or  a  statist,  or  a  politician,  — 
picking  out  all  that  he  wants,  and  a  great  deal  more 
than  he  has  any  business  with,  and  leaving  everything 
else  as  barren  to  his  reader  as  it  has  been  to  himself ; 
but  he  looks  abroad  upon  his  Father's  word  —  as  he 
used  so  pleasantly  to  do  on  his  world  —  as  a  man, 
and  as  a  Christian ;  he  submits  himself  to  its  influ- 
ences, and  lets  his  mind  go  out  fully  and  naturally  in 
its  utterances.  It  is  this  which  gives  to  this  work  all 
the  charm  of  multitude  in  unity,  of  variety  in  har- 


266  DR.   CHALMERS. 

mony ;  and  that  sort  of  unexpectedness  and  ease  of 
movement  which  we  see  everywhere  in  nature  and  in 
natural  men. 

Our  readers  will  find  in  these  delightful  Bible 
Readings  not  a  museum  of  antiquities  and  curiosities 
and  laborious  trifles,  nor  of  scientific  specimens, 
analyzed  to  the  last  degree,  all  standing  in  order, 
labeled  and  useless.  They  will  not  find  in  it  an 
armory  of  weapons  for  fighting  with  and  destroying 
their  neighbors.  They  will  get  less  of  the  physic  of 
controversy  than  of  the  diet  of  holy  living.  They 
will  find  much  of  what  Lord  Bacon  desired,  when  he 
said,  "  We  want  short,  sound,  and  judicious  notes 
upon  Scripture,  without  running  into  commonplaces, 
pursuing  controversies,  or  reducing  those  notes  to 
artificial  method,  but  leaving  them  quite  loose  and 
native.  For  certainly,  as  those  wines  which  flow  from 
the  first  treading  of  the  grape  are  sweeter  and  better 
than  those  forced  out  by  the  press,  which  gives  them 
the  roughness  of  the  husk  and  the  stone,  so  are  those 
doctrines  best  and  sweetest  which  flow  from  a  gentle 
crush  of  the  Scriptures,  and  are  not  wrung  into  con- 
troversies and  commonplaces."  They  will  find  it  as 
a  large  pleasant  garden  ;  no  great  system  ;  not  trim, 
but  beautiful,  and  in  which  there  are  things  pleasant 
to  the  eye  as  well  as  good  for  food,  —  flowers  and 
fruits,  and  a  few  good,  esculent,  wholesome  roots. 
There  are  Honesty,  Thrift,  Eye-bright  (Euphrasy 
that  cleanses  the  sight),  Heart's-ease.  The  good  seed 
in  abundance,  and  the  strange  mystical  Passion- 


DR.   CHALMERS.  267 

flower ;  and  in  the  midst,  and  seen  everywhere,  if  we 
but  look  for  it,  the  Tree  of  Life,  with  its  twelve  man- 
ner of  fruits,  the  very  leaves  of  which  are  for  the 
healing  of  the  nations.  And,  perchance,  when  they 
take  their  walk  through  it  at  evening  time,  or  at  "  the 
sweet  hour  of  prime,"  they  may  see  a  happy,  wise, 
beaming  old  man  at  his  work  there,  —  they  may  hear 
his  well-known  voice  ;  and  if  they  have  their  spiritual 
senses  exercised  as  they  ought,  they  will  not  fail  to 
see  by  his  side  "  one  like  unto  the  Son  of  Man." 


JEEMS   THE   DOOR-KEEPER. 

WHEN  my  father  was  in  Brougliton  Place  Church, 
we  had  a  door-keeper  called  Jeems,  and  a  formidable 
little  man  and  door-keeper  he  was ;  of  unknown  age 
and  name,  for  he  existed  to  us,  and  indeed  still  exists 
to  me,  —  though  he  has  been  in  his  grave  these  six- 
teen years,  —  as  Jeems,  absolute  and  per  se,  no  more 
needing  a  surname  than  did  or  do  Abraham  or  Isaac, 
Samson  or  Nebuchadnezzar.  We  young  people  of 
the  congregation  believed  that  he  was  out  in  '45,  and 
had  his  drum  shot  through  and  quenched  at  Cullo- 
den ;  and  as  for  any  indication  on  his  huge  and  gray 
visage  of  his  ever  having  been  young,  he  might  safely 
have  been  Bottom  the  weaver  in  A  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream,  or  that  excellent,  ingenious,  and 
''wise-hearted  "  Bezaleel,  the  son  of  Uri,  whom  Jeems 
regarded  as  one  of  the  greatest  of  men  and  of  weavers, 
and  whose  "ten  curtains  of  fine  twined  linen,  and 
blue,  and  purple,  and  scarlet,  each  of  them  with  fifty 
loops  on  the  edge  of  the  selvedge  in  the  coupling, 
with  their  fifty  taches  of  gold,"  he,  in  confidential 
moments,  gave  it  to  be  understood  were  the  sacred 
triumphs  of  his  craft ;  for,  as  you  may  infer,  my 
friend  was  a  man  of  the  treadles  and  the  shuttle,  as 
well  as  the  more  renowned  grandson  of  Hur. 


JEEMS    THE  DOOR-KEEPER.  269 

Jeems's  face  was  so  extensive,  and  met  you  so  for- 
midably and  at  once,  that  it  mainly  composed  his 
whole  ;  and  such  a  face  !  Sydney  Smith  used  to  say 
of  a  certain  quarrelsome  man,  "  His  very  face  is  a 
breach  of  the  peace."  Had  he  seen  our  friend's  he 
would  have  said  he  was  the  imperative  mood  on  two 
(very  small)  legs,  out  on  business  in  a  blue  great-coat. 
It  was  in  the  nose  and  the  keen  small  eye  that  his 
strength  lay.  Such  a  noae  of  power,  so  undeniable, 
I  never  saw,  except  in  what  was  said  to  be  a  bust 
from  the  antique,  of  Rhadamanthus,  the  well-known 
Justice  Clerk  of  the  Pagan  Court  of  Session  !  In- 
deed when  I  was  in  the  Rector's  class,  and  watched 
tTeems  turning  interlopers  out  of  the  church  seats  by 
merely  presenting  before  them  this  tremendous  or- 
gan, it  struck  me  that  if  Rhadamanthus  had  still 
been  here,  and  out  of  employment,  he  would  have 
taken  kindly  to  Jeems's  work  ;  and  that  possibly  he 
was  that  potentate  in  a  TJ.  P.  disguise. 

Nature  having  fashioned  the  huge  face,  and  laid 
out  much  material  and  idea  upon  it,  had  finished  off 
the  rest  of  Jeems  somewhat  scrimply,  as  if  she  had 
run  out  of  means ;  his  legs  especially  were  of  the 
shortest,  and  as  his  usual  dress  was  a  very  long  blue 
great-coat,  made  for  a  much  taller  man,  its  tails  rest- 
ing upon  the  ground,  and  its  large  hind  buttons  in  a 
totally  preposterous  position,  gave  him  the  look  of 
being  planted,  or  rather  after  the  manner  of  Milton's 
beasts  at  the  creation,  in  the  act  of  emerging  pain- 
fully from  his  mother  earth. 


270  JEEMS   THE  DOOR-KEEPER. 

Now,  you  may  think  this  was  a  very  ludicrous  old 
object.  If  you  had  seen  him,  you  would  not  have 
said  so ;  and  not  only  was  he  a  man  of  weight  and 
authority,  —  he  was  likewise  a  genuine,  indeed,  a 
deeply  spiritual  Christian,  well-read  in  his  Bible,  in 
his  own  heart  and  in  hdman  nature  and  life,  know- 
ing both  its  warp  and  woof  ;  more  peremptory  in  mak- 
ing himself  obey  his  Master  than  in  getting  himself 
obeyed,  —  and  this  is  saying  a  good  deal ;  and,  like 
all  complete  men,  he  had  a  genuine  love  and  gift  of 
humor,1  kindly  and  uncouth,  lurking  in  those  small, 
deep-set  gray  eyes,  shrewd  and  keen,  which,  like  two 
sharpest  of  shooters,  enfiladed  that  massive  and  re- 
doubtable bulwark,  the  nose. 

One  day  two  strangers  made  themselves  over  to 
tTeems  to  be  furnished  with  seats.  Motioning  them  to 
follow,  he  walked  majestically  to  the  farthest-in  cor- 
ner, where  he  had  decreed  they  should  sit.  The 
couple  found  seats  near  the  door,  and  stepped  into 
them,  leaving  Jeems  to  march  through  the  passages 
alone,  the  whole  congregation  watching  him  with 
some  relish  and  alarm.  He  gets  to  his  destination, 
opens  the  door,  and  stands  aside ;  nobody  appears. 
He  looks  sharply  round,  and  then  gives  a  look  of 

1  On  one  occasion  a  descendant  of  Nabal  having  put  a 
crown  piece  into  "the  plate  "  instead  of  a  penny,  and  start- 
ing at  its  white  and  precious  face,  asked  to  have  it  back,  and 
•was  refused,  —  "In  once,  in  forever."  "A  weel,  a  \vcel," 
grunted  he,  "  I  '11  get  credit  for  it  in  heaven."  "  Na,  na,"  said 
Jeems,  "  ye  '11  get  credit  only  for  the  penny !  " 


JEEMS   THE   DOOR-KEEPER.  271 

general  wrath  "  at  lairge."  No  one  doubted  his  vic- 
tory. His  nose  and  eye  fell,  or  seemed  to  fall,  on 
the  two  culprits,  and  pulled  them  out  instantly,  hurry, 
ing  them  to  their  appointed  place ;  Jeems  snibbed 
them  slowly  in,  and  gave  them  a  parting  look  they 
were  not  likely  to  misunderstand  or  forget. 

At  that  time  the  crowds  and  the  imperfect  ventila- 
tion made  fainting  a  common  occm'rence  in  Broughton 
Place,  especially  among  u  thae  young  hizzies,"  as 
Jeems  called  the  servant  girls.  He  generally  came 
to  me,  "  the  young  Doctor,"  on  these  occasions  with 
a  look  of  great  relish.  I  had  indoctrinated  him  in  the 
philosophy  of  syncopes,  especially  as  to  the  propriety 
of  laying  the  "  hizzies  "  quite  flat  on  the  floor  of  the 
lobby,  with  the  head  as  low  as  the  rest  of  the  body ; 
and  as  many  of  these  cases  were  owing  to  what  Jeems 
called  "  that  bitter  yerkin  "  of  their  bodices,  he  and 
I  had  much  satisfaction  in  relieving  them,  and  giving 
them  a  moral  lesson,  by  cutting  their  stay-laces, 
which  ran  before  the  knife,  and  cracked  "  like  a  bow- 
string," as  my  coadjutor  said.  One  day  a  young 
lady  was  our  care.  She  was  lying  out,  and  slowly 
coming  to.  Jeems,  with  that  huge  terrific  visage, 
came  round  to  me  with  his  open  gully  in  his  hand, 
whispering,  "  Wull  oo  ripp  'er  up  noo  ?  "  It  hap- 
pened not  to  be  a  case  for  ripping  up.  The  gully 
was  a  great  sanitary  institution,  and  made  a  decided 
inroad  upon  the  yerking  system,  —  Jeems  having, 
thanks  to  this  and  Dr.  Combe,  every  year  fewer  op- 
portunities of  displaying  and  enjoying  its  powers. 


272  JEEMS   THE   DOOR-KEEPER. 

He  was  sober  in  other  things  besides  drink,  could 
be  generous  on  occasion,  but  was  careful  of  his  siller ; 
sensitive  to  fierceness  ("  we  're  uncommon  zeelyous 
the  day,"  was  a  favorite  phrase  when  any  church 
matter  was  stirring)  for  the  honor  of  his  church  and 
minister,  and  to  his  too  often  worthless  neighbors  a 
perpetual  moral  protest  and  lesson,  —  a  living  epistle. 
He  dwelt  at  the  head  of  Big  Lochend's  Close  in  the 
Canongate,  at  the  top  of  a  long  stair,  —  ninety-six 
steps,  as  I  well  know,  —  where  he  had  dwelt,  all  by 
himself,  for  five  and  thirty  years,  and  where,  in  the 
midst  of  all  sorts  of  Sittings  and  changes,  not  a  day 
opened  or  closed  without  the  well-known  sound  of 
Jeenis  at  his  prayers,  —  his  "exercise,"  —  at  "the 
Books."  His  clear,  fearless,  honest  voice  in  psalm  and 
chapter  and  strong  prayer  come  sounding  through 
that  wide  "  land,"  like  that  of  one  crying  in  the  wil- 
derness. 

Jeems  and  I  got  great  friends ;  he  called  me  John, 
as  if  he  was  my  grandfather ;  and  though  as  plain  in 
speech  as  in  feature,  he  was  never  rude.  I  owe  him 
much  in  many  ways.  His  absolute  downrightness 
and  yaefauldness  ;  his  energetic,  unflinching  fulfill- 
ment of  his  work ;  his  rugged,  sudden  tenderness  ; 
his  look  of  sturdy  age,  as  the  thick  silver-white  hair 
lay  on  his  serious  and  weatherworn  face,  like  moon- 
light on  a  stout  old  tower  ;  his  quaint  Old  Testament 
exegetics  ;  his  lonely  and  contented  life ;  his  simple 
godliness,  —  it  was  no  small  privilege  to  see  much  of 
all  this. 


JEEMS   THE   DOOR-KEEPER.  273 

But  I  must  stop.  I  forget  that  you  did  n't  know 
him  ;  that  he  is  not  your  Jeems.  If  it  had  been  so, 
you  would  not  soon  have  wearied  of  telling  or  of 
being  told  of  the  life  and  conversation  of  this  "  fell 
body."  He  was  not  communicative  about  his  early 
life.  He  would  sometimes  speak  to  me  about  "  her," 
as  if  I  knew  who  and  where  she  was,  and  always 
with  a  gentleness  and  solemnity  unlike  his  usual  gruff 
ways.  I  found  out  that  he  had  been  married  when 
young,  and  that  "  she "  (he  never  named  her)  and 
their  child  died  on  the  same  day,  —  the  day  of  its 
birth.  The  only  indication  of  married  life  in  his 
room  was  an  old  and  strong  cradle,  which  he  had  cut 
down  so  as  to  rock  no  more,  and  which  he  made  the 
depository  of  his  books,  —  a  queer  collection. 

I  have  said  that  he  had  what  he  called,  with  a  grave 
smile,  family  worship,  morning  and  evening,  never 
failing.  He  not  only  sang  his  psalm,  but  gave  out  or 
chanted  the  line  in  great  style ;  and  on  seeing  me  one 
morning  surprised  at  this,  he  said,  "  Ye  see,  John,  00," 
meaning  himself  and  his  wife,  "began  that  way." 
He  had  a  firm,  true  voice,  and  a  genuine  though 
roughish  gift  of  singing  ;  and  being  methodical  in  all 
things,  he  did  what  I  never  heard  of  in  any  one  else, 
—  he  had  seven  fixed  tunes,  one  of  which  he  sang  on 
its  own  set  day.  Sabbath  morning  it  was  French, 
which  he  went  through  with  great  birr.  Monday, 
Scarborough,  which,  he  said,  was  like  my  father  can- 
tering. ^Tuesday,  Coleshill,  that  soft,  exquisite  air,  — 
monotonous  and  melancholy,  soothing  and  vague,  like 


274  JEEMS   THE  DOOR-KEEPER. 

the  sea.  This  day,  Tuesday,  was  the  day  of  the  week 
on  which  his  wife  and  child  died,  and  he  always  sang 
more  verses  then  than  on  any  other.  Wednesday 
was  Irish ;  Thursday,  Old  Hujidred ;  Friday,  Ban- 
f/or ;  and  Saturday,  Blackburn,  that  liumdrummest 
of  tunes,  "  as  long,  and  lank,  and  lean,  as  is  the  ribbed 
sea-sand."  He  could  not  defend  it,  but  had  some 
secret  reason  for  sticking  to  it.  As  to  the  evenings, 
they  were  just  the  same  tunes  in  reversed  order,  only 
that  on  Tuesday  night  he  sang  Coleshill  again,  thus 
dropping  Blackburn  for  evening  work.  The  children 
could  tell  the  day  of  the  week  by  Jeems's  tune,  and 
would  have  been  as  much  astonished  at  hearing  Ban- 
gor  on  Monday,  as  at  finding  St.  Giles's  half-way 
down  the  Canongate. 

I  frequently  breakfasted  with  him.  He  made  cap- 
ital porridge,  and  I  wish  I  could  get  such  buttermilk, 
or  at  least  have  such  a  relish  for  it,  as  in  those  days. 
tleems  is  away,  —  gone  over  to  the  majority ;  and  I 
hope  I  may  never  forget  to  be  grateful  to  the  dear 
and  queer  old  man.  I  think  I  see  and  hear  him 
saying  his  grace  over  our  bickers  with  their  brats  on, 
then  taking  his  two  books  out  of  the  cradle  and  read- 
ing, not  without  a  certain  homely  majesty,  the  first 
verse  of  the  99th  Psalm, 

' '  Th'  eternal  Lord  doth  reign  as  king1, 

Let  all  the  people  quake  ; 
He  sits  between  the  cherubims, 

Let  th'  earth  be  moved  and  shake  ;  " 

then  launching  out  into  the  noble  depths  of   Irish. 


JEEMS   THE   DOOR-KEEPER.  275 

His  chapters  were  long,  and  his  prayers  short,  very 
scriptural,  but  by  no  means  stereotyped,  and  wonder- 
fully real,  immediate,  as  if  he  was  near  Him  whom  he 
addressed.  Any  one  hearing  the  sound  and  not  the 
words,  would  say,  "That  man  is  speaking  to  some 
one  who  is  with  him,  —  who  is  present,"  —  as  he 
often  said  to  me,  "  There  's  nae  gude  dune,  John,  till 
ye  get  to  close  grups" 

Now,  I  dare  say  you  are  marveling,  — first,  Why  I 
brought  this  grim  old  Rhadamanthus,  Bezaleel,  U.  P. 
Naso  of  a  door-keeper  up  before  you ;  and  secondly, 
How  I  am  to  get  him  down  decorously  in  that  ancient 
blue  great-coat,  and  get  at  my  own  proper  text. 

And  first  of  the  first.  I  thought  it  would  do  you 
young  men  —  the  hope  of  the  world  —  no  harm  to  let 
your  affections  go  out  toward  this  dear,  old-world 
specimen  of  homespun  worth.  And  as  to  the  second, 
I  am  going  to  make  it  my  excuse  for  what  is  to  come. 
One  day  soon  after  I  knew  him,  when  I  thought  he 
was  in  a  soft,  confidential  mood,  I  said,  "deems, 
what  kind  of  weaver  are  you?  "  "  I'm  in  thefanci- 
cal  line,  maister  John,"  said  he,  somewhat  stiffly; 
"  I  like  its  leecence."  So  exit  deems  —  impiger, 
iracundus,  acer  —  torvus  visu  — placide  quiescat ! 

Now,  my  dear  friends,  I  am  in  thefancical  line  as 
well  as  deems,  and  in  virtue  of  my  leecence,  I  begin 
my  exegetical  remarks  on  the  pursuit  of  truth.  By 
the  by,  I  should  have  told  Sir  Henry  that  it  is  truth, 
not  knowledge,  I  was  to  be  after.  Now  all  knowledge 
should  be  true,  but  it  is  n't ;  much  of  what  is  called 


276  JEEMS   THE   DOOR-KKEPER. 

knowledge  is  very  little  worth  even  when  true,  and 
much  of  the  best  truth  is  not  in  a  strict  sense  know- 
able, —  rather  it  is  felt  and  believed. 
•  Exegetical,  you  know,  is  the  grand  and  fashionable 
word  now-a-days  for  explanatory  ;  it  means  bringing 
out  of  a  passage  all  that  is  in  it,  and  nothing  more. 
For  my  part,  being  in  Jeems's  line,  I  am  not  so  par- 
ticular as  to  the  nothing  more.  We  fancical  men 
are  much  given  to  make  somethings  of  nothings ;  in- 
deed, the  noble  Italians  call  imagination  and  poetic 
fancy  the  little  more ;  its  very  function  is  to  embel- 
lish and  intensify  the  actual  and  the  common.  Now 
you  must  not  laugh  at  me,  or  it,  when  I  announce 
the  passage  from  which  I  mean  to  preach  upon  the 
pursuit  of  truth,  and  the  possession  of  wisdom  :  — 

"  On  Tintock  tap  there  is  a  Mist, 
And  in  the  Mist  there  is  a  Kist, 
And  in  the  Kist  there  is  a  Cap  ; 
Tak'  up  the  Cap  and  sup  the  drap, 
And  set  the  Cap  on  Tintock  tap.'' 

As  to  what  Sir  Henry  *  would  call  the  context,  we 
are  saved  all  trouble,  there  being  none,  the  passage 
being  self-contained,  and  as  destitute  of  relations  as 
Melchisedec. 

Tintock,  you  all  know,  or  should  know,  is  a  big 
porphyritic  hill  in  Lanarkshire,  standing  alone,  and 
dominating  like  a  king  over  the  Upper  Ward.  Then 
we  all  understand  what  a  mist  is ;  and  it  is  worth 

1  This  was  read  to  Sir  Henry  W.  Moncrieff's  Young  Men's 
Association.  November,  18G2. 


JEEMS   THE   DOOR-KEEPER.  277 

remembering  that  as  it  is  more  difficult  to  penetrate, 
to  Illuminate,  and  to  see  through  mist  than  darkness, 
so  it  is  easier  to  enlighten  and  overcome  ignorance 
than  error,  confusion,  and  mental  mist.  Then  a  kist 
is  Scotch  for  chest,  and  a  cap  the  same  for  cup,  and 
drap  for  drop.  Well,  then,  I  draw  out  of  these  queer 
old  lines,  — • 

First,  That  to  gain  real  knowledge,  to  get  it  at 
first-hand,  you  must  go  up  the  Hill  Difficulty,  —  some 
Tintock,  something  you  see  from  afar,  —  and  you 
must  climb:  you  must  energize,  as  Sir  William  Ham- 
ilton and  Dr.  Chalmers  said  and  did ;  you  must  turn 
your  back  upon  the  plain,  and  you  must  mainly  go 
alone,  and  on  your  own  legs.  Two  boys  may  start 
together  on  going  up  Tinto,  and  meet  at  the  top  ;  but 
the  journeys  are  separate,  each  takes  his  own  line. 

Secondly,  You  start  for  your  Tintock  top  with  a 
given  object,  to  get  into  the  mist  and  get  the  drop, 
and  you  do  this  chiefly  because  you  have  the  truth- 
hunting  instinct ;  you  long  to  know  what  is  hidden 
there,  for  there  is  a  wild  and  urgent  charm  in  the 
unknown  ;  and  you  want  to  realize  for  yourself  what 
others,  it  may  have  been  ages  ago,  tell  they  have 
found  there. 

Thirdly,  There  is  no  road  up  ;  no  omnibus  to  the 
top  of  Tinto ;  you  must  zigzag  it  in  your  own  way, 
and  as  I  have  already  said,  most  part  of  it  alone. 

Fourthly,  This  climbing,  this  exaltation,  and  buck- 
ling to  of  the  mind,  of  itself  does  you  good  ; :  it  is 

1  "In  this  pursuit,  whether  we  take  or  whether  we  lose  our 
game,  the  chase  is  certainly  of  service." —  Burke. 


278  JEEMS   THE   DOOR-KEEPER. 

capital  exercise,  and  you  find  out  many  a  thing  by 
the  way.  Your  lungs  play  freely ;  your  mouth  fills 
with  the  sweet  waters  of  keen  action  ;  the  hill  tries 
your  wind  and  mettle,  supples  and  hardens  your 
joints  and  limbs ;  quickens  and  rejoices,  while  it  tests 
your  heart. 

Fifthly,  You  have  many  a  fall,  many  a  false  step ; 
you  slip  back,  you  tumble  into  a  mosshagg ;  you 
stumble  over  the  baffling  stones ;  you  break  your 
shins  and  lose  your  temper,  and  the  finding  of  it 
makes  you  keep  it  better  the  next  time ;  you  get 
more  patient,  and  yet  more  eager,  and  not  unoften 
you  come  to  a  stand-still ;  run  yourself  up  against,  or 
to  the  edge  of  some  impossible  precipice,  some  insolu- 
ble problem,  and  have  to  turn  for  your  life  ;  and  you 
may  find  yourself  overhead  in  a  treacherous  wellec, 
whose  soft  inviting  cushion  of  green  has  decoyed 
many  a  one  before  you. 

Sixthly,  You  are  forever  mistaking  the  top ;  think- 
ing you  are  at  it,  when,  behold  !  there  it  is,  as  if  far- 
ther off  than  ever,  and  you  may  have  to  humble 
yourself  in  a  hidden  valley  before  reascending ;  and 
so  on  you  go,  at  times  flinging  yourself  down  on  the 
elastic  heather,  stretched  panting  with  your  face  to 
the  sky,  or  gazing  far  away  athwart  the  widening 
horizon. 

Seventhly,  As  you  get  up,  you  may  see  how  the 
world  below  lessens  and  reveals  itself,  comes  up  to 
you  as  a  whole,  with  its  just  proportions  and  rela- 
tions ;  how  small  the  village  you  live  in  looks,  and 


JEEMS   THE  DOOR-KEEPER.  279 

the  house  in  which  you  were  born  ;  how  the  plan  of 
the  place  comes  out :  there  is  the  quiet  churchyard, 
and  a  lamb  is  nibbling  at  that  infant's  grave  ;  there, 
close  to  the  little  church,  your  mother  rests  till  the 
great  day  ;  and  there  far  off  you  may  trace  the  river 
winding  through  the  plain,  coming  like  human  life, 
from  darkness  to  darkness,  —  from  its  source  in  some 
wild,  upland  solitude  to  its  eternity,  the  sea.  But 
you  have  rested  long  enough,  so,  up  and  away  !  take 
the  hill  once  again !  Every  effort  is  a  victory  and 
joy, — new  skill  and  power  and  relish,  —  takes  you 
farther  from  the  world  below,  nearer  the  clouds  and 
heavens ;  and  you  may  note  that  the  more  you  move 
up  towards  the  pure  blue  depths  of  the  sky,  —  the 
more  lucid  and  the  more  unsearchable,  —  the  farther 
off,  the  more  withdrawn  into  their  own  clear  infinity 
do  they  seem.  Well,  then,  you  get  to  the  upper 
story,  and  you  find  it  less  difficult,  less  steep  than 
lower  down ;  often  so  plain  and  level,  that  you  can 
run  off  in  an  ecstasy  to  the  crowning  cairn,  to  the 
sacred  mist,  —  within  whose  cloudy  shrine  rests  the 
unknown  secret ;  some  great  truth  of  God  and  of 
your  own  soul ;  something  that  is  not  to  be  gotten 
for  gold  down  on  the  plain,  but  may  be  taken  here  ; 
sometliing  that  no  man  can  give  or  take  away  ;  some- 
thing that  you  must  work  for  and  learn  yourself,  and 
which,  once  yours,  is  safe  beyond  the  chances  of 
time. 

Eighthly,  You  enter  that  luminous  cloud,  stooping 
and  as  a  little  child,  —  as,  indeed,  all  the  best  king- 


280  JEEMS  THE   DOOR-KEEPER. 

doins  are  entered,  —  and  pressing  on,  you  come  in 
the  shadowy  light,  to  the  long-dreamt-of  ark,  —  the 
chest.  It  is  shut,  it  is  locked ;  but  if  you  are  the 
man  I  take  you  to  be,  you  have  the  key,  put  it  gently 
in,  steadily,  and  home.  But  what  is  the  key  ?  It  is 
the  love  of  truth ;  neither  more  nor  less  ;  no  other 
key  opens  it ;  no  false  one,  however  cunning,  can 
pick  that  lock  ;  no  assault  of  hammer,  however  stout, 
can  force  it  open.  But  with  its  own  key,  a  little 
child  may  open  it,  often  does  open  it,  it  goes  so 
sweetly,  so  with  a  will.  You  lift  the  lid ;  you  are  all 
alone;  the  cloud  is  round  you  with  a  sort  of  tender 
light  of  its  own,  shutting  out  the  outer  world,  filling 
you  with  an  eerie  joy,  as  if  alone  and  yet  not  alone. 
You  see  the  cup  within,  and  in  it  the  one  crystalline, 
unimaginable,  inestimable  drop ;  glowing  and  tremu- 
lous, as  if  alive.  You  take  up  the  cup,  you  sup  the 
drop ;  it  enters  into,  and  becomes  of  the  essence  of 
yourself ;  and  so  in  humble  gratitude  and  love,  "  in 
sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss,"  you  gently  replace 
the  cup.  It  will  gather  again,  —  it  is  forever  ever 
gathering ;  no  man,  woman,  or  child  ever  opened 
that  chest,  and  found  no  drop  in  the  cup.  It  might 
not  be  the  very  drop  expected ;  it  will  serve  their 
purpose  none  the  worse,  often  much  the  better. 

And  now,  bending  down,  you  shut  the  lid,  which 
you  hear  locking  itself  afresh  against  all  but  the  sa- 
cred key.  You  leave  the  now  hallowed  mist.  You 
look  out  on  the  old  familiar  world  again,  which  some- 
how looks  both  new  and  old.  You  descend,  making 


JEEMS   THE  DOOR-KEEPER.  281 

your  observations  over  again,  throwing  the  light  of 
the  present  on  the  past ;  and  past  and  present  set 
against  the  boundless  future.  You  hear  coming  up 
to  you  the  homely  sounds  —  the  sheep-dog's  bark, 
"  the  cock's  shrill  clarion  "  —  from  the  farm  at  the 
hill-foot ;  you  hear  the  ring  of  the  blacksmith's  study, 
you  see  the  smoke  of  his  forge ;  your  mother's  grave 
has  the  long  shadows  of  evening  lying  across  it,  the 
sunlight  falling  on  the  letters  of  her  name,  and  on 
the  number  of  her  years ;  the  lamb  is  asleep  in  the 
bield  of  the  infant's  grave.  Speedily  you  are  at 
your  own  door.  You  enter  with  wearied  feet,  and 
thankful  heart ;  you  shut  the  door,  and  you  kneel 
down  and  pray  to  your  Father  in  heaven,  the  Father 
of  lights,  your  reconciled  Father,  the  God  and  Fa- 
ther of  our  Lord  and  Saviour  Jesus  Christ,  and  our 
God  and  Father  in  and  through  him.  And  as  you 
lie  down  on  your  own  delightful  bed,  before  you  fall 
asleep  you  think  over  again  your  ascent  of  the  Hill 
Difficulty,  —  its  baffling  heights,  its  reaches  of  dreary 
moorland,  its  shifting  gravel,  its  precipices,  its  quag- 
mires, its  little  wells  of  living  waters  near  the  top, 
and  all  its  "  dread  magnificence ; "  its  calm,  restful 
summit,  the  hush  of  silence  there,  the  all-aloneness  of 
the  place  and  hour ;  its  peace,  its  sacredness,  its  di- 
vineness.  You  see  again  the  mist,  the  ark,  the  cup, 
the  gleaming  drop,  and  recalling  the  sight  of  the 
world  below,  the  earth  and  all  its  fullness,  you  say  to 
yourself,  — 


282  JEEMS   THE   DOOR-KEEPER. 

"  These  are  thy  glorious  works,  Parent  of  good, 
Almighty,  thine  this  universal  frame, 
Thus  wondrous  fair  ;  thyself  how  wondrous  then  ! 
Unspeakable,  who  sitt'st  above  these  heavens." 

And  finding  the  burden  too  heavy  even  for  these  glo- 
rious lines,  you  take  refuge  in  the  Psalms,  — 

"  Praise  ye  the  Lord. 

Praise  ye  the  Lord  from   the  heavens :    praise  him  in   the 

heights. 

Praise  him  in  the  firmament  of  his  power. 
Praise  ye  him,  all  his  angels  :   praise  ye  him,  all  his  hosts. 
Praise  ye  him,  sun  and  moon  :    praise  him,   all  ye  stars  of 

light. 

Praise  the  Lord  from  the  earth,  ye  dragons,  and  all  deeps  ; 
Fire  and  hail ;  snow  and  vapor ;    stormy  wind  fulfilling  his 

word : 

Mountains,  and  all  hills  ;  fruitful  trees,  and  all  cedars  ; 
Beasts,  and  all  cattle  ;   creeping  things,  and  flying  fowl : 
Kings  of  the  earth,  and  all  people ;  princes  and  all  judges  of 

the  earth ; 

Both  young  men  and  maidens ;   old  men  and  children : 
Let  them  praise  the  name  of  the  Lord  : 
For  his  name  alone  is  excellent ;  his  glory  is  above  the  earth 

and  heaven. 

Let  everything  that  hath  breath  praise  the  Lord. 
BLESS  THE  LORD,  0  my  soul !  " 

I  need  hardly  draw  the  moral  of  this  our  some- 
what fancical  exercitation  and  exegesis.  You  can  all 
make  it  out,  such  as  it  is.  It  is  the  toil,  and  the  joy, 
and  the  victory  in  the  search  of  truth ;  not  the  taking 
on  trust,  or  learning  by  rote,  not  by  heart,  what  other 
men  count  or  call  true ;  but  the  vital  appropriation, 


JEEMS   THE   DOOR-KEEPER.  288 

the  assimilation  of  truth  to  ourselves,  and  of  ourselves 
to  truth.  All  truth  is  of  value,  but  one  truth  differs 
from  another  in  weight  and  in  brightness,  in  worth ; 
and  you  need  not  me  to  tell  you  that  spiritual  and 
eternal  truth,  the  truth  as  it  is  in  Jesus,  is  the  best. 
And  don't  think  that  your  own 'hand  has  gotten  you 
the  victory,  and  that  you  had  no  unseen,  and  it  may 
be  unfelt  and  unacknowledged,  hand  guiding  you  up 
the  hill.  Unless  the  Lord  had  been  at  and  on  your 
side,  all  your  labor  would  have  been  in  vain,  and 
worse.  No  two  things  are  more  inscrutable  or  less 
uncertain  than  man's  spontaneity  and  man's  helpless- 
ness, —  Freedom  and  Grace  as  the  two  poles.  It 
is  his  doing  that  you  are  led  to  the  right  hill  and  the 
right  road,  for  there  are  other  Tintocks,  with  other 
kists,  and  other  drops.  Work  out,  therefore,  your 
own  knowledge  with  fear  and  trembling,  for  it  is 
God  that  worketh  in  you  both  to  will  and  to  do,  and 
to  know  of  his  good  pleasure.  There  is  no  explaining 
and  there  is  no  disbelieving  this. 

And  now,  before  bidding  you  good  by,  did  you 
ever  think  of  the  spiritual  meaning  of  the  pillar  of 
cloud  by  day,  and  the  pillar  of  fire  by  night,  as  con- 
nected with  our  knowledge  and  our  ignorance,  our 
light  and  darkness,  our  gladness  and  our  sorrow? 
The  every-day  use  of  this  divine  alternation  to  the 
wandering  children  of  Israel  is  plain  enough.  Dark- 
ness is  best  seen  against  light,  and  light  against 
darkness  ;  and  its  use,  in  a  deeper  sense  of  keeping 
forever  before  them  the  immediate  presence  of  God 


284  JEEMS   THE   DOOR-KEEPER. 

in  the  midst  of  them,  is  not  less  plain  ;  but  I  sometimes 
think,  that  we  who  also  are  still  in  the  wilderness,  and 
coming  up  from  our  Egypt  and  its  flesh-pots,  and  on 
our  way,  let  us  hope,  through  God's  grace  to  the  celes- 
tial Canaan,  may  draw  from  these  old-world  signs  and 
wonders  that,  in  the  midday  of  knowledge,  with  day- 
light all  about  us,  there  is,  if  one  could  but  look  for  it, 
that  perpetual  pillar  of  cloud,  —  that  sacred  dark- 
ness which  haunts  all  human  knowledge,  often  the 
most  at  its  highest  noon ;  that  "  look  that  threatens 
the  profane  ; "  that  something,  and  above  all,  that 
sense  of  Some  One,  that  Holy  One,  who  inhabits  eter- 
nity and  its  praises,  who  makes  darkness  his  secret 
place,  his  pavilion  round  about,  darkness  and  thick 
clouds  of  the  sky. 

And  again,  that  in  the  deepest,  thickest  night  of 
doubt,  of  fear,  of  sorrow,  of  despair ;  that  then,  and 
all  the  most  then,  —  if  we  will  but  look  in  the  right 
airt,  and  with  the  seeing  eye  and  the  understanding 
heart,  —  there  may  be  seen  that  Pillar  of  fire,  of 
light  and  of  heat,  to  guide  and  quicken  and  cheer ; 
knowledge  and  love,  that  everlasting  love  which  we 
know  to  be  the  Lord's.  And  how  much  better  off 
are  we  than  the  chosen  people  ;  their  pillars  were  on 
earth,  divine  in  their  essence,  but  subject  doubtless 
to  earthly  perturbations  and  interferences ;  but  our 
guiding  light  is  in  the  heavens,  towards  which  may 
we  take  earnest  heed  that  we  are  journeying. 

"  Once  on  the  raging  seas  I  rode, 

The  storm  was  loud,  the  night  was  dark ; 


JEEMS   THE   DOOR-KEEPER. 

The  ocean  yawned,  and  rudely  Mowed 
The  wind  that  tossed  my  foundering  bark. 

"  Deep  horror  then  ray  vitals  froze, 

Death-struck,  I  ceased  the  tide  to  stem, 
When  suddenly  a  star  arose,  — 
It  was  the  Star  of  Bethlehem ! 

"  It  was  my  guide,  my  light,  my  all, 

It  bade  my  dark  foreboding  cease  ; 
And  through  the  storm  and  danger's  thrall 
It  led  me  to  the  port  in  peace. 

"  Now  safely  moored,  my  perils  o'er 
I  '11  sing  first  in  night's  diadem, 
Forever  and  forevermore 

The  Star,  the  Star  of  Bethlehem !  " 


285 


"OH,   I'M  WAT,   WAT!" 

"  WHAT  is  love,  Mary  ?  "  said  Seventeen  to  Thir- 
teen, who  was  busy  with  her  English  lessons. 

"  Love  !  what  do  you  mean,  John  ?  " 

"  I  mean  what 's  love  ?  " 

"  Love  's  just  love,  I  suppose." 

(Yes,  Mary,  you  are  right  to  keep  by  the  concrete  ; 
analysis  kills  love  as  well  as  other  things.  I  once 
asked  a  useful  -  information  young  lady  what  her 
mother  was.  "  Oh,  mamma 's  a  biped  !  "  I  turned  in 
dismay  to  her  younger  sister,  and  said,  What  do  you 
say  ?  "  Oh,  my  mother 's  just  my  mother.") 

"  But  what  part  of  speech  is  it  ?  " 

"  It 's  a  substantive  or  a  verb."  (Young  Home 
Tooke  did  n't  ask  her  if  it  was  an  active  or  passive, 
an  irregular  or  defective  verb  ;  an  inceptive,  as  ecu- 
lesco,  I  grow  warm,  or  dulcesco,  I  grow  sweet ;  a  fre- 
quentative or  a  desiderative,  as  nupturio,  I  desire  to 
marry.) 

"  I  think  it  is  a  verb,"  said  John,  who  was  deep  in 
other  diversions,  besides  those  of  Purley ;  "  and  I 
think  it  must  have  been  originally  the  Perfect  of 
Live,  like  thrive  throve,  strive  strove." 

"  Capital,  John !  "  suddenly  growled   Uncle    Old- 


"OH,  I'M  WAT,  WAT!"  287 

buck,  who  was  supposed  to  be  asleep  in  his  arm-chair 
by  the  fireside,  and  who  snubbed  and  supported  the 
entire  household.  "  It  was  that  originally,  and  it 
will  be  our  own  faults,  children,  if  it  is  not  that  at 
last,  as  well  as,  ay,  and  more  than  at  first.  What 
does  Richardson  say,  John?  read  him  out."  John 
reads  — 

LOVE,  v.  s.  To  prefer,  to  desire,  as  an 

-LESS.  object  of  possession  or  enjoy- 

-LY,  ad.  av.  ment  ;    to   delight    in,   to    be 

-LILY.  pleased   or   gratified  with,   to 

-LINESS.  take   pleasure  or  gratification 

-ER  hi,  delight  in. 

-ING  Love,  the  s.  is  app.  emph.  to 

-INGLY.  the  passion  between  the  sexes. 

-INGNESS.  Lover  is,  by  old  writers,  app. 

-ABLE.1  as  friend  —  by  male  to  male. 

-SOME.2  Love  is  much  used  —  pref. 

-ERED.8  !  Wiclif.    2  Chaucer.    3  Shak. 

Love-locks, — locks  (of  hair)  to  set  off 
the  beauty  ;  the  loveh'ness. 

A.  S.  Luf-ian ;  D.  Lie-ven  ;  Ger.  -ben,  amare, 
diligere.  Waeh.  derives  from  lieb,  bonura,  be- 
cause every  one  desires  that  which  is  good  :  lieb, 
it  is  more  probable,  is  from  lie!>-en,  grateful,  and 
therefore  good.  It  may  at  least  admit  a  conjec- 
ture that  A.  S.  Liifian,  to  love,  has  a  reason  for 
its  application  similar  to  th'at  of  L.  Di-ligere  (le- 
gere,  to  gather),  to  take  up  or  out  (of  a  number), 
to  choose,  sc.  one  in  preference  to  another,  to  pre- 
fer ;  and  that  it  is  formed  upon  A.  S.  Hlif-ian,  to 
lift  or  take  up,  to  pick  up,  to  select,  to  prefer. 
Be-  Over-  Un- 


288  "OH,  I'M  WAT,  WAT!" 

Uncle,  impatiently.  —  "  Stuff ;  '  grateful ! '  '  pick 
up !  '  stuff !  These  word-mongers  know  nothing  about 
it.  Live,  love  ;  that  is  it,  the  perfect  of  live."  1 

After  this,  Uncle  sent  the  cousins  to  their  beds. 
Mary's  mother  was  in  hers,  never  to  rise  from  it 
again.  She  was  a  widow,  and  Mary  was  her  hus- 
band's niece.  The  house  quiet,  Uncle  sat  down  in 
his  chair,  put  his  feet  on  the  fender,  and  watched  the 
dying  fire ;  it  had  a  rich  central  glow,  but  no  flame 
and  no  smoke,  it  was  flashing  up  fitfully,  and  bit  by 
bit  falling  in.  He  fell  asleep  watching  it,  and  when 
he  slept,  he  dreamed.  He  was  young ;  he  was  seven- 
teen ;  he  was  prowling  about  the  head  of  North  St. 
David  Street,  keeping  his  eye  on  a  certain  door,  — 
we  call  them  common  stairs  in  Scotland.  He  was 
waiting  for  Mr.  White's  famous  English  class  for 
girls  coming  out.  Presently  out  rushed  four  or  five 
girls,  wild  and  laughing  ;  then  came  one,  bounding 
like  a  roe  :  — 

"  Such  eyes  were  in  her  head, 
And  so  imicli  grace  and  power !  " 

She  was  surrounded  by  the  rest,  and  away  they 
went  laughing,  she  making  them  always  laugh  the 
more.  Seventeen  followed  at  a  safe  distance,  stucly- 

1  They  are  strange  beings,  these  lexicographers.  Richard- 
son, for  instance,  under  the  word  SNAIL,  gives  this  quotation 
from  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  Wit  at  Several  Weapons,  — 

"  Oh,  Master  Poinpey  !  how  is  't,  man  ? 
Claim.  —  SNAILS,  I  'm  almost  starved  with  love  and  cold,  and  one  thin); 

or  other." 

Any  one  else  knows  of  course  that  it  is  "  's  nails  "  —  the  con- 
traction of  the  old  oath  or  interjection  —  God's  nails. 


"  OH,  i  'M  WAT,  WAT  ! "  289 

ing  her  small,  firm,  downright  heel.  The  girls 
dropped  off  one  by  one,  and  she  was  away  home  by 
herself,  swift  and  reserved.  He,  impostor  as  he  was, 
disappeared  through  Jamaica  Street,  to  reappear  and 
meet  her,  walking  as  if  on  urgent  business,  and  get- 
ting a  cordial  and  careless  nod.  This  beautiful  girl 
of  thirteen  was  afterwards  the  mother  of  our  Mary, 
and  died  in  giving  her  birth.  She  was  Uncle  Old- 
buck's  first  and  only  sweetheart :  and  here  was  he, 
the  only  help  our  young  Home  Tooke  and  his 
mother  and  Mary  had.  Uncle  awoke,  the  fire  dead, 
and  the  room  cold.  He  found  himself  repeating 
Lady  John  Scott's  lines  — 

' '  When  thou  art  near  me, 

Sorrow  seems  to  fly, 
And  then  I  think,  as  well  I  may, 
That  on  this  earth  there  is  no  one 

More  blest  than  I. 

"  But  when  thou  leav'st  me, 

Doubts  and  fears  arise, 
And  darkness  reigns, 

Where  all  before  was  light. 
The  sunshine  of  my  soul 

Is  in  those  eyes, 
And  when  they  leave  me 

All  the  world  is  night. 

"  But  when  thou  art  near  me, 

Sorrow  seems  to  fly, 
And  then  I  feel,  as  well  I  may, 
That  on  this  earth  there  dwells  not  one 

So  blest  as  I."  1 

1  Can  the  gifted  author  of  these  lines  and  of  their  music  not 


290  "  OH,   I  'M  WAT,   WAT  !  " 

Then  taking  down  Chambers's  Scottish  Songs,  he 
read  aloud :  — 

"  O  I  'm  wat,  wat, 

O  I  'm  wat  and  weary ; 
Yet  fain  wad  I  rise  and  rin, 

If  I  thocht  I  would  meet  my  dearie. 
Aye  waukin,'  O ! 

Waukin'  aye,  and  weary  ; 
Sleep  I  can  get  nane 

For  thinkin'  o'  my  dearie. 

"  Simmer 's  a  pleasant  time, 
Flowers  o'  every  color ; 
The  winter  rins  ower  the  heugh, 
And  I  long  for  my  true  lover. 

"  When  I  sleep  I  dream, 

When  I  wauk  I  'm  eerie, 
Sleep  I  can  get  nane, 

For  thinkin'  o'  my  dearie. 

"  Lanely  nicht  comes  on, 

A'  the  lave  are  sleepin ' ; 
I  think  on  my  true  love, 

And  blear  my  e'en  wi'  greetiii'. 

"  Feather  beds  are  saf  t  — 

Pentit  rooms  are  bonnie  ; 
But  ae  kiss  o'  my  dear  love 
Better 's  far  than  ony. 

"  O  for  Friday  nicht !  — 

Friday  at  the  gloamin' ; 
O  for  Friday  nicht  — 

Friday  's  lang  o'  comin' !  " 

be  prevailed  on  to  give  them  and  others  to  the  world,  as  well 
as  her  friends  ? 


"OH,  I'M  WAT,  WAT!"  291 

This  love-song,  which  Mr.  Chambers  gives  from 
recitation,  is,  thinks  Uncle  to  himself,  all  but  perfect ; 
Burns,  who  in  almost  every  instance  not  only  adorned, 
but  transformed  and  purified,  whatever  of  the  old  he 
touched,  breathing  into  it  his  own  tenderness  and 
strength,  fails  here  as  may  be  seen  in  reading  his 
version. 

"  Oh,  spring1  's  a  pleasant  time ! 

Flowers  o'  every  color  — 
The  sweet  bird  builds  her  nest, 

And  I  lang  for  my  lover. 
Aye  wakin',  oh  ! 

Wakin'  aye  and  wearie  ; 
Sleep  I  can  get  nane, 

For  thinkin'  o'  my  dearie ! 

"  When  I  sleep  I  dream, 

When  I  wauk  I  'm  eerie, 
Rest  I  canna  get, 

For  thinkin'  o'  my  dearie. 
Aye  wakin',  oh ! 

Wakin'  aye  and  weary ; 
Come,  come,  blissful  dream, 

Bring  me  to  my  dearie. 

u  Darksome  nicht  comes  doun  — 

A'  the  lave  are  sleepin'  ; 
I  think  on  my  kind  lad, 

And  blin'  my  een  wi'  greetin'. 
Aye  wakin',  oh ! 

Wakin'  aye  and  wearie ; 
Hope  is  sweet,  but  ne'er 

Sae  sweet  as  my  dearie  !  " 

How  weak  these  italics !     No  one  can  doubt  which  of 


292  "OH,  I'M  WAT,  WAT!" 

these  is  the  better.  The  old  song  is  perfect  in  the 
procession,  and  in  the  simple  beauty  of  its  thoughts 
and  words.  A  ploughman  or  shepherd  —  for  I  hold 
that  it  is  a  man's  song  —  comes  in  "  wat,  wat "  after 
a  hard  day's  work  among  the  furrows,  or  on  the  hill. 
The  watness  of  wat,  wat,  is  as  much  wetter  than  wet 
as  a  Scotch  mist  is  more  of  a  mist  than  an  English 
one  ;  and  he  is  not  only  wat,  wat,  but  "  weary,"  long- 
ing for  a  dry  skin  and  a  warm  bed  and  rest ;  but  no 
sooner  said  and  felt,  than,  by  the  law  of  contrast,  he 
thinks  on  "  Mysie  "  or  "  Ailie,"  his  Genevieve  ;  and 
then  "  all  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights,"  begin 
to  stir  him,  and  "fain  wad  I  rise  and  rin  (what  a 
swiftness  beyond  run  is  "rin"!).  Love  now  makes 
him  a  poet ;  the  true  imaginative  power  enters  and 
takes  possession  of  him.  By  this  time  his  clothes  are 
off,  and  he  is  snug  in  bed  ;  not  a  wink  can  he  sleep ; 
that  "  fain "  is  domineering  over  him,  —  and  he 
breaks  out  into  what  is  as  genuine  passion  and  poetry 
as  anything  from  Sappho  to  Tennyson  —  abrupt, 
vivid,  heedless  of  syntax.  "  Simmer  's  a  pleasant 
time."  Would  any  of  our  greatest  geniuses,  being 
limited  to  one  word,  have  done  better  than  take 
"  pleasant  ?  "  and  then  the  fine  vagueness  of  "  time  "  ! 
"  Flowers  o'  every  color ; "  he  gets  a  glimpse  of 
"  herself  a  fairer  flower,"  and  is  off  in  pursuit. 
"  The  water  rins  ower  the  heugh  "  (a  steep  precipice)  ; 
flinging  itself  wildly,  passionately  over,  and  so  do  I 
long  for  my  true  lover.  Nothing  can  be  simpler  and 
finer  than  — 


"  OH,  i  'M  WAT,  WAT  !  "  293 

"  When  I  sleep,  I  dream ; 

When  I  wauk,  I  'm  eerie." 

"Lanely  nicht ;  "  how  much  richer  and  touching  than 
"  darksome."  "  Feather  beds  are  saft ;  "  "  paintit 
rooms  are  bonnie  ;  "  I  would  infer  from  this,  that  his 
"  dearie,"  his  "  true  love,"  was  a  lass  up  at  "  the 
big  house  "  —  a  dapper  Abigail  possibly  —  at  Sir 
William's  at  the  Castle,  and  then  we  have  the  final 
paroxysm  upon  Friday  nicht  —  Friday  at  the  gloam- 
in' !  0  for  Friday  nicht !  —  Friday  's  laug  o'comin' ! 
—  it  being  very  likely  Thursday  before  daybreak, 
when  this  affectionate  ululatus  ended  in  repose. 

Now,  is  not  this  rude  ditty,  made  very  likely  by 
some  clumsy,  big-headed  Galloway  herd,  full  of  the 
real  stuff  of  love  ?  He  does  not  go  off  upon  her  eye- 
brows, or  even  her  eyes  ;  he  does  not  sit  down,  and 
in  a  genteel  way  announce  that  "  love  in  thine  eyes 
forever  sits,"  etc.,  etc.,  or  that  her  feet  look  out  from 
under  her  petticoats  like  little  mice  :  he  is  far  past 
that ;  he  is  not  making  love,  he  is  in  it.  This  is  one 
and  a  chief  charm  of  Burns's  love-songs,  which  are 
certainly  of  all  love-songs  except  those  wild  snatches 
left  to  us  by  her  who  flung  herself  from  the  Leucadian 
rock,  the  most  in  earnest,  the  tenderest,  the  "  most 
moving  delicate  and  full  of  life."  Burns  makes  you 
feel  the  reality  and  the  depth,  the  truth  of  his  passion  ; 
it  is  not  her  eyelashes,  or  her  nose,  or  her  dimple,  or 
even 

"  A  mole  cinque-spotted,  like  the  crimson  drops 
I'  the  bottom  of  a  cowslip,'' 


294  "OH,  I'M  WAT,  WAT!" 

that  are  "  winging  the  fervor  of  his  love  ;  "  not  even 
her  soul ;  it  is  herself.  This  concentration  and 
earnestness,  this  perfervor  of  our  Scottish  love  poetry, 
seems  to  me  to  contrast  curiously  with  the  light, 
trifling  philandering  of  the  English ;  indeed,  as  far 
as  I  remember,  we  have  almost  no  love -songs  in 
English,  of  the  same  class  as  this  one,  or  those  of 
Burns.  They  are  mostly  either  of  the  genteel,  or  of 
the  nautical  (some  of  these  capital),  or  of  the  comic 
school.  Do  you  know  the  most  perfect,  the  finest 
love-song  in  our  or  in  any  language  ;  the  love  being 
affectionate  more  than  passionate,  love  in  possession 
not  in  pursuit  ? 

"  Oh,  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast 

On  yonder  lea,  on  yonder  lea, 
My  plaidie  to  the  angry  airt, 

I  'd  shelter  thee,  I  'd  shelter  thee : 
Or  did  Misfortune's  bitter  storms 

Around  thee  blaw,  around  thee  blaw, 
Thy  bield  should  be  my  bosom, 

To  share  it  a',  to  share  it  a'. 

"  Or  were  I  in  the  wildest  waste, 

Sae  black  and  bare,  sae  black  and  bare, 
The  desert  were  a  paradise, 

If  thou  wert  there,  if  thou  wert  there : 
Or  were  I  monarch  o'  the  globe, 

Wi'  thee  to  reign,  wi'  thee  to  reign, 
The  brightest  jewel  in  my  crown 

Wad  be  my  queen,  wad  be  my  queen." 

The  following  is  Mr.  Chambers's  account  of  the 
origin   of  this   song :  Jessy  Lewars  had  a   call  one 


"  OH,  i  'M  WAT,  WAT  ! "  295 

morning  from  Burns.  He  offered,  if  she  would  play 
him  any  tune  of  which  she  was  fond,  and  for  which 
she  desired  new  verses,  that  he  would  do  his  best  to 
gratify  her  wish.  She  sat  down  at  the  piano,  and 
played  over  and  over  the  air  of  an  old  song,  begin- 
ning with  the  words,  — 

"  The  robin  cam'  to  the  wren's  nest 

And  keekit  in,  and  keekit  in : 
'  0  weel  's  me  on  your  auld  pow ! 
Wad  ye  be  in,  wad  ye  be  in  ? 
Ye'se  ne'er  get  leave  to  lie  without, 

And  I  within,  and  I  within, 
As  lung 's  I  hae  an  auld  clout, 
To  row  ye  in,  to  row  ye  in. '  " 

Uncle  now  took  his  candle,  and  slunk  off  to  bed, 
slipping  up  noiselessly  that  he  might  not  disturb  the 
thin  sleep  of  the  sufferer,  saying  to  himself  —  "  I  'd 
shelter  thee,  I  'd  shelter  thee  ;  "  "  If  thou  wert  there, 
if  thou  wert  there  ;  "  and  though  the  morning  was  at 
the  window,  he  was  up  by  eight,  making  breakfast 
for  John  and  Mary. 

Love  never  f  aileth ;  but  whether  there  be  prophe- 
cies, they  shall  fail ;  whether  there  be  tongues,  they 
shall  cease ;  whether  there  be  knowledge,  it  shall 
vanish  away  ;  but  love  is  of  God,  and  cannot  fail. 


HER  LAST  HALF-CROWN. 

HUGH  MILLER,  the  geologist,  journalist,  and  man 
of  genius,  was  sitting  in  his  newspaper  office  late  one 
dreary  winter  night.  The  clerks  had  all  left  and  he 
was  preparing  to  go,  when  a  quick  rap  came  to  the 
door.  He  said  "  Come  in,"  and  looking  towards  the 
entrance,  saw  a  little  ragged  child  all  wet  with  sleet. 
"Are  ye  Hugh  Miller?"  "Yes."  "Mary  Duff 
wants  ye."  "  What  does  she  want  ?  "  "  She  's  deein." 
Some  misty  recollection  of  the  name  made  him  at 
once  set  out,  and  with  his  well-known  plaid  and  stick, 
he  was  soon  striding  after  the  child,  who  trotted 
through  the  now  deserted  High  Street,  into  the  Can- 
ongate.  By  the  time  he  got  to  the  Old  Playhouse 
Close,  Hugh  had  revived  his  memory  of  Mary  Duff  : 
a  lively  girl  who  had  been  bred  up  beside  him  in 
Cromarty.  The  last  time  he  had  seen  her  was  at  a 
brother  mason's  marriage,  where  Mary  was  "  best 
maid,"  and  he  "  best  man."  He  seemed  still  to  see 
her  bright  young  careless  face,  her  tidy  short  gown, 
and  her  dark  eyes,  and  to  hear  her  bantering,  merry 
tongue. 

Down  the  close  went  the  ragged  little  woman,  and 
up  an  outside  stair,  Hugh  keeping  near  her  with  diffi- 


HER  LAST   HALF-CROWN.  297 

culty;  in  the  passage  she  held  out  her  hand  and 
touched  him ;  taking  it  in  his  great  palm,  he  felt  that 
she  wanted  a  thumb.  Finding  her  way  like  a  cat 
through  the  darkness,  she  opened  a  door,  and  saying 
"  That 's  her  !  "  vanished.  By  the  light  of  a  dying 
fire  he  saw  lying  in  the  corner  of  the  large  empty 
room  something  like  a  woman's  clothes,  and  on  draw- 
ing nearer  became  aware  of  a  thin  pale  face  and  two 
dark  eyes  looking  keenly  but  helplessly  up  at  him. 
The  eyes  were  plainly  Mary  Duff's,  though  he  could 
recognize  no  other  feature.  She  wept  silently,  gazing 
steadily  at  him.  "  Are  you  Mary  Duff  ?  "  "  It 's  a' 
that's  o'  me,  Hugh."  She  then  tried  to  speak  to 
him,  something  plainly  of  great  urgency,  but  she 
could  n't,  and  seeing  that  she  was  very  ill,  and  was 
making  herself  worse,  he  put  half-a-crown  into  her 
feverish  hand,  and  said  he  would  call  again  in  the 
morning.  He  could  get  no  information  about  her 
from  the  neighbors  ;  they  were  surly  or  asleep. 

When  he  returned  next  morning,  the  little  girl  met 
him  at  the  stair-head,  and  said  "  She  's  deid."  He 
went  in,  and  found  that  it  was  true ;  there  she  lay, 
the  fire  out,  her  face  placid,  and  the  likeness  to  her 
maiden  self  restored.  Hugh  thought  he  would  have 
known  her  now,  even  with  those  bright  black  eyes 
closed  as  they  were,  in  ceternum. 

Seeking  out  a  neighbor,  he  said  he  would  like  to 
bury  Mary  Duff,  and  arranged  for  the  funeral  with 
an  undertaker  in  the  close.  Little  seemed  to  be 
known  of  the  poor  outcast,  except  that  she  was  a 


298  HER  LAST   HALF-CROWN. 

"  licht,"  or,  as  Solomon  would  have  said,  a  "  strange 
woman."  "  Did  she  drink  ?  "  "  Whiles." 

On  the  day  of  the  funeral  one  or  two  residents  in 
the  close  accompanied  him  to  the  Canongate  Church- 
yard. He  observed  a  decent-looking  little  old  woman 
watching  them,  and  following  at  a  distance,  though 
the  day  was  wet  and  bitter.  After  the  grave  was 
filled,  and  he  had  taken  off  his  hat,  as  the  men  fin- 
ished their  business  by  putting  on  and  slapping  the 
sod,  he  saw  this  old  woman,  remaining.  She  came 
up  and,  courtesying,  said,  "  Ye  wad  ken  that  lass, 
sir  ?  "  "  Yes ;  I  knew  her  when  she  was  young." 
The  woman  then  burst  into  tears,  and  told  Hugh  that 
she  "  keepit  a  bit  shop  at  the  Closemooth,  and  Mary 
dealt  wi'  me,  and  aye  paid  reglar,  and  I  was  feared 
she  was  dead,  for  she  had  been  a  month  awin'  me 
half-a-crown : "  and  then  with  a  look  and  voice  of 
awe,  she  told  him  how  on  the  night  he  was  sent  for, 
and  immediately  after  he  had  left,  she  had  been 
awakened  by  some  one  in  her  room ;  and  by  her 
bright  fire  —  for  she  was  a  bein,  well-to-do  body  — 
she  had  seen  the  wasted,  dying  creature,  who  came 
forward  and  said,  "  Was  n't  it  half-a-crowu  ?"  "  Yes." 
"  There  it  is,"  and  putting  it  under  the  bolster,  van- 
ished ! 

Alas  for  Mary  Duff !  her  career  had  been  a  sad 
one  since  the  day  when  she  had  stood  side  by  side  with 
Hugh  at  the  wedding  of  their  friends.  Her  father 
died  not  long  after,  and  her  mother  supplanted  her 
in  the  affections  of  the  man  to  whom  she  had  given 


HER  LAST  HALF-CROWN.  299 

her  heart.  The  shock  was  overwhelming,  and  made 
home  intolerable.  Mary  fled  from  it  blighted  and 
embittered,  and  after  a  life  of  shame  and  sorrow, 
crept  into  the  corner  of  her  wretched  garret,  to  die 
deserted  and  alone  ;  giving  evidence  in  her  latest  act 
that  honesty  had  survived  amid  the  wreck  of  nearly 
every  other  virtue. 

"  My  thoughts  are  not  your  thoughts,  neither  are 
your  ways  my  ways,  saith  the  Lord.  For  as  the 
heavens  are  higher  than  the  earth,  so  are  my  ways 
higher  than  your  ways,  and  my  thoughts  than  your 
thoughts." 


BOOKS  BY  DR.  JOHN  BROWN. 


SPARE  HOURS.  Three  Series.  Each  in  one 
volume,  i6mo,  $1.50  ;  half  calf,  $2.75.  The  3  vols.  $4.50 ; 
half  calf,  $8.00. 

FIRST  SERIES.     Rab  and  His  Friends,  etc. 

CONTENTS:  Rab  and  His  Friends;  "With  Brains,  Sir:  "  The  Mys- 
tery of  Black  and  Tan ;  Her  Last  Half-Crown  ;  Our  Dogs;  Queen  Mary's 
Child  -  Garden ;  Presence  of  Mind  and  Happy  Guessing ;  My  Father's 
Memoir ;  Mystifications ;  "  Oh,  I  'm  wat,  wat !  Arthur  H.  Hallam  ;  Edu- 
cation through  the  Senses ;  Vaughan's  Poems ;  Dr.  Chalmers ;  Dr.  George 
Wilson ;  St.  Paul's  Thorn  in  the  Flesh ;  The  Black  Dwarf's  Bones  ;  Notes 
on  Art. 

SECOND     SERIES.       Marjorie   Fleming,   etc. 

With  Portrait  and  Illustrations. 

CONTENTS:  John  Leech  (with  illustrations);  Marjorie  Fleming ;  Jeems 
the  Doorkeeper :  Minchmoor ;  The  Enterkin ;  Health ;  The  Duke  of 
Athole  ;  Struan  ;  Thackeray's  Death  ;  Thackeray's  Literary  Career ;  More 
of  "Our  Dogs;"  Plea  for  a  Dog  Home;  "Bibliomania;"  "In  Clear 
Dream  and  Solemn  Vision ;  "  A  Jacobite  Family. 

THIRD  SERIES.  Locke  and  Sydenham,  and 
Other  Papers. 

CONTENTS:  Preface  to  Edition  of  1866;  Introduction;  Locke  and  Syd- 
enham ;  Dr.  Andrew  Combe ;  Dr.  Henry  Marshall  and  Military  Hygiene ; 
Art  and  Science :  a  Contrasted  Parallel ;  Our  Gideon  Grays ;  Dr.  Andrew 
Brown  and  Sydenham  ;  Free  Competition  in  Medicine  ;  Edward  Forbes  ; 
Dr.  Adams  of  Banchory ;  Excursus  Ethicus  ;  Dr.  John  Scott  and  his  Son  ; 
Mr.  Syme;  Sir  Robert  Christison;  Miss  Stirling  Graharn  of  Duntrune; 
"There's  Life  in  the  Old  Dog  yet;"  Halle's  Recital;  Biggar  and  the 
House  of  Fleming ;  Sir  Henry  Raeburn. 

RAB  AND  HIS  FRIENDS,  and  other  Dogs 
and  Men.  In  Riverside  Classics.  i6mo,  $1.00;  half  calf, 
$2.00. 

RAB  AND  HIS  FRIENDS;  Marjorie  Flem- 
ing ;  Thackeray ;  John  Leech.  In  Modern  Classics.  321110, 
75  cents.  School  Edition,  321110,  40  cents,  net. 

RAB  AND  HIS  FRIENDS.  In  Lilliput  Clas- 
sics. 32mo,  paper,  25  cents. 

HEALTH.  Modern  Classics.  321110,  75  cents. 
School  Edition,  40  cents,  net. 

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RIVERSIDE   CLASSICS. 

Cabinet  Edition  of  Choice  and  Popular  Works  in 
Prose  and  Poetry,  in  uniform  volumes,  with  engravings 
and  ornamental  head-pieces  on  wood,  from  the  best  artists. 
New  Edition,  in  tasteful  binding.  Each  volume,  uniform, 
i6mo,  $1.00;  half  calf,  $2.00. 

THE   VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.     By  OLIVER 

GOLDSMITH.  With  3  Illustrations  from  designs  by  CHAMP- 

NEY  and  MULREADY. 

PICCIOLA.  By  J.  X.  B.  SAINTINE.  With  6  Illus- 
trations from  designs  by  LEOPOLD  FLAMENG. 

MRS.    CAUDLES    CURTAIN  LECTURES. 

By  DOUGLAS  JERROLD.     With  6  appropriate  Illustrations 
from  designs  by  CHARLES  KEENE. 

PARADISE  LOST.  With  Explanatory  Notes, 
prepared  under  the  advice  and  with  the  assistance  of  Pro- 
fessor TORREY,  of  Harvard  University. 

LALLA  ROOKH.  By  THOMAS  MOORE.  With 
6  Illustrations  from  designs  by  JOHN  TENNIEL,  and  an 
Appendix  with  full  explanatory  Notes. 

PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA.  By  BERNARDIN  DE  ST. 
PIERRE.  With  6  Illustrations  from  designs  by  AUGUSTUS 
HOPPIN. 

THE  LAD  Y  OF  THE  LAKE.  By  Sir  WAL- 
TER SCOTT.  With  6  Illustrations  from  designs  by  F.  O. 
C.  BARLEY. 

THE  CLOCKMAKER;  or,  The  Sayings  and 
Doings  of  Samuel  Slick  of  Slickville.  By  THOMAS  CHAND- 
LER HALIBURTON.  With  6  Illustrations  from  designs  by 
F.  O.  C.  DARLEY. 

UNDINE  AND  OTHER  TALES.  By  Baron 
DE  LA  MOTTE  FOUQUE.  Containing  Undine,  The  Two  Cap- 
tains, Aslauga's  Knight,  and  Sintram  and  his  Companions. 
With  8  Illustrations  from  designs  by  H.  W.  HERRICK. 

RAB  AND  HIS  FRIENDS,  and  Other  Dogs 

and  Men. 
SELECTIONS  FROM  THE  WRITINGS  OF 

HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 

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